


I've Nothing Much To Offer

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2018-04-03 08:24:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 33,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4093936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the years he has been attending Aramis’s support group, Porthos has encountered a variety of people, all struggling under the weight of one addiction or another. But there’s something about their enigmatic, taciturn newcomer…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive my use of artistic license - this is in no way representative of true counselling/support groups.

“My name is Athos and I’m an alcoholic.”

He spoke with a sardonic drawl that made it sound as if he might be taking the piss, but his bleak gaze told a different story. Porthos suspected that any contempt the bloke felt was directed firmly inward.

Taken aback by the genuine warmth in the chorus of greetings that followed his introduction, it took a moment for the man to recover and continue, but he did so with stubborn defiance.

“It has been…” He darted a quick glance at the clock on the wall. “Fifty-two minutes since my last drink.”

It seemed like he was determined to prove he was undeserving of any kindness, even from a group of people well-placed to empathise with his situation and understand what was going through his mind.

Aramis, from his seat at the head of the rough circle, showed no surprise, but Porthos knew him well enough to recognise the shadow of concerned dismay that passed across his eyes.

“You had a drink before you came here?” There was no accusation in Aramis’s question, merely a curiosity to discover why he would do something so self-defeating. Porthos remained silent, letting Aramis guide the conversation.

“Yes.”

“But I assume you want to find a way to overcome your reliance on alcohol?”

“I have no immediate desire to do so, no.”

Rather than irritating him, Athos’s laconic, almost surly responses made Porthos’s heart ache. It had to be the emotionless detachment with which they were delivered; Athos clearly considered himself a lost cause. He had been attending these group meetings for two weeks, and this was the first time he had spoken.

Aramis, showing the dogged but compassionate tenacity that Porthos was so familiar with, wasn’t about to let him retreat now he had taken a step forward. 

“Then what is it you hope to gain from these meetings?”

A brief pause, whether to consider his answer or decide whether or not to reply at all Porthos couldn’t be sure.

“A means to return to work.”

Aramis held his gaze, knew that sometimes it was best just to wait.

“By rights, I should have been dismissed, but my superior made me take extended leave instead. Promised that if I attended these meetings he would keep my job open for me.”

“Don’t you think he meant that you also stop drinking?”

“Of course. But that part is not so easy.”

“That’s what we’re here for.” Aramis spread his arms to indicate not only himself but everyone present. “To give you whatever support you need.”

“I don’t think talking to a roomful of strangers will make the slightest difference.”

“You’d be surprised.” It was a young woman who spoke, and Porthos nodded in agreement. If anyone could attest to the value of the group sessions, it was those who had previously benefited from them.

Athos gave a dubious grunt. “None of you can change the past.”

“No,” Aramis admitted gently, “but we can find ways to move forward, into the future.”

Porthos felt the man beside him bristle, had a horrible feeling he was about to scoff at Aramis’s words, dismiss them as the kind of insubstantial assertion you might read in a bad self-help manual. But Athos instead met the counsellor’s eyes in a challenge. “Why should I be allowed to move forward when there are those who have had that right torn from them?”

“There’s someone in particular you’re thinking of?”

Anger flared briefly behind those sea-green eyes, a fury at having allowed himself to fall into what he perceived to be a trap. But, just as quickly, it vanished, leaving that stark, empty expression that was by now so painfully familiar. Athos dropped his gaze, his hair falling into his eyes. It was shaggy in a way that suggested a sensible cut had been allowed to grow out unchecked which, along with the scruff of beard along his jaw and mismatched clothing, suggested a deep-seated apathy at odds with his formal, measured speech.

His reply, when it came, was directed to the community hall’s laminate flooring.

“My brother. He died.” Flat, devoid of emotion. “It was my fault.”

Without knowing the details, Aramis couldn’t argue that claim, but the very fact that Athos believed it to be true was telling enough.

“So you turned to alcohol to forget? To punish yourself? To make sure you don’t have a future either?” Not a criticism, but gentle enquiry.

“Yes.” This time, the hollow, monosyllabic response laid bare his soul. Porthos wanted to both shake him and hug him, but he stemmed the urge for such a physical reaction. He didn’t need a psychology degree to know it would be entirely unwelcome.

Leaning forward, Aramis rested his elbows on his knees and waited until he had regained Athos’s attention. Porthos admired that unwavering patience.

“Ultimately, it’s your choice. But you’re here, so I know there’s a part of you that wants to fight, not give up.”

Was there a flicker of cautious acceptance on that otherwise inscrutable face? Perhaps Aramis had managed to penetrate that stubborn melancholy. Only time would tell.

* * * *

“You’re quiet.”

It took a moment for Porthos to realise Aramis had spoken.

“Hmn?”

Aramis’s small smile of understanding told Porthos he had correctly guessed what was occupying his mind. That uncanny knack for mindreading was an attribute Porthos was silently grateful for.

“Still thinking about him, aren’t you?”

Porthos dropped the last few chairs onto the stack, the noisy clatter of their metal legs loud in the now empty hall, and leant against them with a sigh.

“It’s like he’s already given up on ’imself.”

“No. He’s a fighter.” Aramis spoke with a conviction it was difficult to contest. Being able to read what lay beneath the surface was what made him so good at his job. His irrepressible optimism helped, and Porthos knew it was rarely misplaced. “He just needs to realise there’s something worth fighting for. Luckily for him, that’s what we’re here for.”

Porthos suspected Athos was currently lamenting his good fortune. The bloke would have looked less uncomfortable had he been strapped to a rack facing an hour and a half of torture.

“He ain’t exactly makin’ it easy. He barely speaks.”

“Not regretting agreeing to be his sponsor already, are you?”

“No.” The response came immediately, surprising Porthos with the strength of its veracity. “I like a challenge, me.”

There was something about Athos that made Porthos determined to do whatever he could to help him win the battle ahead. It wouldn’t be an easy ask, of that he was certain. Athos clearly wasn’t the type to voluntarily reveal his soul to even his closest friends, let alone a complete stranger. But having taken the first step that evening, perhaps he would now see that he had nothing to gain from keeping everything bottled up.

That was what Porthos planned to convince him of, and he didn’t give up easily. Aramis knew that, was well acquainted with his stubborn persistence, and had deemed him the best man for the job. Porthos might not have been as confident of his own abilities, but he was damn well going to try.

“Come on.” Aramis clapped him on the shoulder and flashed the bright grin that never failed to cheer Porthos up. “Let’s grab a takeaway and you can thrash me at something on the PlayStation.”

“ _FIFA_?”

Aramis gave a pained groan. “I thought you said you like a challenge.”

“Yeah.” Porthos didn’t bother trying to conceal his mischievous smile. “And sometimes I just like kicking your arse at _FIFA_.”


	2. Chapter 2

Athos stood just inside the entrance doors, hunched in his leather jacket, glowering at the rain hammering down outside. Everyone else had long since made a dash for it, but Athos seemed reluctant to venture out from the dry.

“Not very invitin’ out there, is it?”

He gave a small start at the sound of Porthos’s voice, and Porthos mentally kicked himself. He hadn’t meant to sneak up on the guy. Athos had probably thought himself the only one still lingering, but he recovered quickly and heaved a sigh.

“No.”

Porthos wondered whether Athos was always so reticent, or whether he was just reluctant to risk revealing too much. He found himself hoping the man was naturally taciturn and that it wasn’t just him.

“I don’t much fancy heading out there yet, either,” he continued when the silence had stretched into awkward territory. “Why don’t we grab a coffee next door and wait it out?”

“Is that allowed?”

“I don’t think there’s a law against drinkin’ coffee.”

Athos turned to look at him then and Porthos could have sworn he detected a hint of amusement in his eyes. Then his gaze dropped to the helmet Porthos held.

“The bike parked outside is yours?”

“Yeah.”

Athos’s expression remained impassive, but his voice was strangely sombre when he spoke. “It’s a beautiful machine.”

“Do you ride?”

Now there was a spark of pain. Porthos caught it just before Athos’s gaze returned to the rain-spattered glass of the door.

“I used to.”

After a moment it became clear Athos was going to say nothing more and, with difficulty, Porthos quashed the desire to ask more. He didn’t like treating Athos like a skittish animal, but the bloke gave the impression he would either take flight or punch him in the face if confronted. He couldn’t be sure which would be the more likely outcome.

But, for all Athos maintained an aloof, unapproachable façade, Porthos felt, somewhere deep down, that they could be friends. If only he could find a way to slip past those carefully constructed barricades.

Athos’s eyes darted to him, a brief glance that conveyed nothing of his thoughts.

“The offer of coffee still stands,” Porthos ventured.

Athos looked back outside once again, perhaps deciding which was the lesser of two evils: getting a drenching, or spending twenty minutes in Porthos’s company. Porthos waited him out, was rewarded with a minute nod.

“Okay.”

* * * *

The little coffee shop was warm and dry, and thick with the heady, welcoming aroma that never failed to make Porthos’s mouth water. It was also rather crowded with people who must have had the same idea of ducking in for a drink as a means to escape the rain. Porthos sent Athos to snag them a table while he joined the queue at the counter.

A few minutes later, two cardboard cups in hand, Porthos slid into the chair opposite Athos. It wasn’t much of a surprise to note that Athos had chosen a table tucked into a corner, the most isolated of those still vacant but with a clear view of the rest of the café.

Despite this, Athos seemed oblivious to his surroundings until Porthos placed his coffee on the Formica in front of him. He reached for his wallet, but Porthos waved away the offer.

“It’s on me,” he insisted. “I’m the one who dragged you in here.” Athos looked as if he were about to protest so Porthos added, “You c’n buy next time.”

Athos paused, then slid the wallet back into his pocket. “Thank you.”

Porthos grinned. It wasn’t explicit consent to another coffee date, but it was something.

They drank in silence for a few minutes, Athos staring out into the middle distance, deep in his own thoughts, and Porthos trying not to stare at Athos. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking, but his eyes had that haunted look again. Porthos wished he knew how to go about exorcising the ghosts that plagued him.

“What made you want to do this?”

The question was unexpected, apropos of nothing, but Porthos recovered quickly.

“Drink coffee?” he quipped, smiling playfully.

Athos glanced at him, quickly deduced that he was joking, and rolled his eyes dramatically. That brief glimpse of a well-hidden, dry sense of humour made Porthos’s smile grow wider.

“Agree to sponsor a fuck-up like me.”

“Athos.” It was a gentle admonishment.

Athos conceded his faux pas with a tilt of his head. “Sorry.” He stared down into the murky depths of his coffee for a moment, fingers wrapped around the warm cup. “You didn’t join the group because of a drink problem.”

“No,” Porthos confirmed, surprised that Athos had taken enough notice of him to have reached that conclusion. The man gave the impression of being completely self-absorbed. Or perhaps, more correctly, so completely consumed by his own demons that he struggled to connect with the wider world. “It’s gamblin’ for me. Poker mainly.”

Athos was watching him. His expression was still unreadable, but Porthos sensed curiosity in his gaze. He also knew Athos would never ask. A man who clearly valued his own privacy would never pry unnecessarily into another’s life. Porthos, however, was more than willing to share.

“Growin’ up, I had nothin’. I was passed between foster families so quickly I never had chance to settle in anywhere an’ I spent more time suspended from school for fightin’ than I spent in class.” Athos listened in silence, his attention encouraging rather than uncomfortable. “Then an older boy taught me how to play cards, and suddenly I had a weapon besides my fists, one that actually paid off. It helped me pay my way through college and university, but after that…at some point it became less about the need for a bit of cash, an’ more about the thrill. I prob’ly wouldn’t have even admitted it was becomin’ a problem if it hadn’t been for Aramis.”

Athos gave away a small flicker of interest at that. “You have been friends with Aramis for a while?”

“Yeah. We met at college. He’s been keepin’ me on the straight an’ narrow ever since.”

“He seems like a good man.”

“He is. The best.” Porthos thought himself lucky to be able to call Aramis his best friend. “He has ’is own weaknesses, though,” he added with a mischievous grin. “Mostly of the female variety.”

The faintest hint of amusement creased the corners of Athos’s eyes only to disappear seconds later as he resumed his contemplation of his rapidly cooling coffee. Social convention would dictate it was now his turn to share, and he was clearly regretting having started the conversation. As Porthos tried to think of a way to bring them back onto neutral territory, Athos pushed the remainder of his coffee away and delved into his jacket pocket, producing a crumpled packet of cigarettes to fiddle with instead, turning it between his fingers on the tabletop. This earned him a wary glance from the kid behind the counter, but Athos didn’t notice, his gaze directed down at his hands. Porthos couldn’t help staring and had to resist the urge to reach across and still those restless fingers.

Before inspiration had chance to strike, Athos stirred and spoke without looking up.

“The rain has stopped.”

Despite the slightly strained silence that had fallen between them, Porthos was loath to leave. Aramis had always been better with people than Porthos, but he was determined he would find a way to convince Athos to lower his guard.

Athos pulled a cigarette from the packet while he waited for Porthos to drain the last mouthful of coffee and they ventured back out into the damp evening. Porthos expected Athos would immediately bid him farewell, but he instead followed him back across to the car park, fishing a lighter from his pocket as Porthos zipped up his jacket, pulled on his helmet, and swung a leg over the Ducati’s seat.

“I’d offer you a lift, but I only brought the one helmet.”

It was clearly an offer Athos hadn’t been expecting, but was that a flicker of disappointment? It was impossible to tell.

“It’s fine. I can walk.”

Athos finally lit his cigarette and took a deep drag, holding the smoke in his lungs for several seconds. His long fingers, the way his lips pursed around the end of the cigarette…it was a distracting sight, and Porthos caught himself too late. When Athos realised Porthos was watching him, he exhaled through his nose and grimaced sheepishly, mistaking Porthos’s scrutiny for disapproval.

“Sorry. One vice at a time, eh?”

The sardonic delivery and self-deprecating twist of his lip would have had Porthos laughing were it not for the memory of Athos’s disclosure earlier at the meeting.

_It has been three days and fifty-two minutes since my last drink._

The significance of so specific a time hadn’t escaped anyone’s notice. If he truly hadn’t had a drink since the one he had confessed to at the previous meeting – and Porthos had no reason to suspect otherwise – then the past few days couldn’t have been easy for him.

Porthos saw the slight tremor in Athos’s hand as he brought the cigarette to his lips again and knew he wouldn’t be able to wait until Wednesday’s meeting before he saw the bloke again.

“What are you doin’ tomorrow?” The question had left Porthos’s lips even before he had made the decision to ask it.

Athos blinked, nonplussed, and Porthos waited for him to invent an excuse, wishing he had kept his mouth shut.

Perhaps guessing that Porthos wouldn’t believe he had made important plans to wash his hair, Athos eventually confessed, “Nothing.”

“Meet me here at twelve.”

Before Athos had time to argue, Porthos flipped his visor down and started the engine. Sketching a quick farewell salute, he left Athos staring after him in bemused astonishment, his heart racing as fast as the machine beneath him.


	3. Chapter 3

Athos looked up as Porthos turned into the car park, but didn’t move from his spot against the wall even as Porthos brought the bike around and came to a halt in front of him.

Over the course of the morning, Porthos had managed to half-convince himself that Athos wouldn’t show. He didn’t seem the type to agree to vague meetings with strangers, and Porthos had given him no real reason to turn up. Seeing him there, leaning casually against the dusty red bricks, triggered an ecstatic grin, one Porthos was glad his helmet obscured.

Twisting in his seat, he unhitched the spare helmet, pushed up his visor before offering it to Athos. It was greeted with a bemused stare and an arched eyebrow.

“It’s a helmet,” Porthos supplied helpfully. “For your head.”

That earned him a withering glare, but with the hint of a smile twitching at the corner of Athos’s mouth. After a moment’s silent consideration, Athos took the helmet and pulled it on. Porthos had predicted a little more persuasion would be needed, and was pleasantly surprised when Athos swung onto the seat behind him without objection. It was only once he was settled that Athos leaned forward and asked, “Where are we going?”

“You’ll hafta wait an’ see.” Porthos knew his smile was evident in his voice and, although he couldn’t see Athos’s face, he could easily imagine the eye-roll directed at the back of his head. Then Athos slid his arms around his waist in a loose hold, a clear cue, and Porthos yielded.

The first time he had sat astride a motorcycle – he had been about nine, the bike an old Yamaha belonging to one of his foster carers – Porthos had instantly fallen in love. There was no feeling that came close to that of being in command of such power, of pelting along with the wind whipping past and the roar of the engine loud in his ears, the rush of adrenaline buzzing through his veins providing a more visceral thrill than that triggered by even the best hand of cards.

And now, with Athos’s arms wrapped around him, the press of his thighs as they took the corners…

It was safer not to dwell on just how that contributed to the experience.

A few miles outside the city, Porthos turned off the main road, slowing as he navigated country lanes and then rough tracks. Eventually, he drew to a halt and, leaving the bike amongst a stand of trees, he led Athos the rest of the way on foot, up a short incline to the crest of a hill.

The landscape opened out before them, fields and woodland rolling away into the distance, a patchwork of greens and browns that stretched to the horizon. The only sign of the previous day’s rain was a distant wash of grey, the sky above them now a clear blue broken by a few lazily drifting clouds.

“So,” Porthos said, trying and failing to judge Athos’s reaction. “What d’ya think?”

“Stunning.” There was no trace of sarcasm in the reply and Porthos relaxed, knew he hadn’t been wrong in his spontaneous decision to bring Athos here. He had no idea what the man was thinking as he stared out across the miles, and he cast more than a few sidelong glances at his companion, acutely aware that his own thoughts had not strayed far from Athos since the first time he had turned up to one of their meetings. For all he came across as an arrogant prick and had barely spoken two words to Porthos, Athos had somehow managed to get under his skin.

It was Athos who finally broke the silence that had settled over them.

“I would never have expected you to be a lover of the great outdoors.”

Porthos laughed, pleased that he had managed to surprise Athos, even just a little. “Nah. It’s far too quiet out here. But sometimes it’s good to get away from it all for a bit. Put things in perspective.” He may be a city boy through and through, but there was something innately calming about losing yourself in nature once in a while.

Athos’s eyes were now on him, a shrewd curiosity. “You sound like Aramis.”

“Don’t tell ’im I said so, but a lot of what he says makes sense.”

A small nod told Porthos that perhaps Athos was starting to agree. What had definitely become apparent was that he had begun to shed his initial resistance to the idea of counselling, becoming an active participant in the group meetings. Granted, he still didn’t say an awful lot, but it was a positive sign.

There was no need for them to hurry back, so Porthos found a spot to sit, the grass thankfully now dry. After a moment, Athos joined him, close enough that their shoulders were almost touching. Porthos tugged two Mars bars from his jacket pocket and offered one to Athos. It was accepted with a bemused frown.

Porthos wrinkled his nose in an apologetic grimace. “It’s a bit of a shit lunch, sorry. I need to remind Aramis it’s his turn to do the shopping.”

“You live together?”

“Yeah. We’ve shared a flat since uni.”

Athos raised an eyebrow at that revelation. “And he’s also your counsellor?”

“No, not officially.” He had to admit their living arrangements might seem a little unorthodox to a stranger, but Aramis was his friend first and foremost. “When he realised where I was heading, he gave me the name of someone he trained with, and I still go and see her every now and again.” It had been his friend’s obvious concern that had convinced Porthos to arrange a series of sessions with Ninon, if only to prove Aramis had nothing to worry about. As it turned out, he had ended up grateful for that perceptive advice. “But when he started the group, he invited me along to share my experiences and help others if I could.”

“You two make a formidable team.”

“A force to be reckoned with,” Porthos agreed, grinning as he bit into his Mars. “What about you?” he asked after he had swallowed a mouthful of chocolate. “You got anyone at home?”

It was only after he had spoken that he realised the question could be easily misconstrued. He had been asking whether Athos had anyone close by for support, but he might just as well have been probing into his relationship status with a painful lack of subtlety. He cringed under Athos’s contemplative gaze.

Cursing himself for sounding a total prat, he was about to elaborate when Athos replied. “No.” It seemed the one answer was sufficient, whatever Porthos’s meaning and Porthos’s own embarrassment faded as his suspicion that Athos was facing getting sober alone was confirmed. Before he had chance to say that Athos could call him if he ever needed company, the man surprised him again.

“I have you.”

There was every possibility Athos was being flippant, but something clutched at Porthos’s heart. The knowledge that the closest thing Athos apparently had to a friend was a relative stranger – one who had all but muscled his way into his life – made Porthos thankful for the order he had been given to attend the support group meetings. Porthos knew what it was like to be alone in the world, and he wouldn’t wish it upon anybody.

“Yeah,” he confirmed, his voice gruff. “You do.”

They finished their mediocre lunch in an oddly companionable silence, stuffing the empty wrappers into their pockets.

“I’ll have to make it up to you.” Porthos was still annoyed with himself for not having planned ahead and brought along something more substantial, or at least more nutritious, to eat. “Come to mine for dinner tomorrow night.”

Athos blinked, and Porthos hoped he hadn’t overstepped the mark. Or made it sound like he expected something from Athos he wasn’t willing, or able, to give. As the silence stretched, he began to feel more of an idiot.

“You don’t have to—”

“No.” Athos stopped him with what could almost be described as a smile. “I’d like that. Thank you.” He ducked his head, his hair falling in a curtain in front of his eyes as he looked back to the view in front of them. “And thank you for this.”

“My pleasure.” He meant it, and he hoped Athos heard the sincerity in his voice. “And y’know you c’n call me anytime, yeah?”

“I know.”


	4. Chapter 4

“This is very good.”

Porthos beamed at Athos across the table, the compliment leaving him strangely proud, a warmth spreading in his chest.

“I have to confess to cheating,” he admitted, his smile turning sheepish. “I constructed it from the contents of jars and packets and just stuck it in the oven.”

“Still, it’s an improvement on a Mars bar.”

“I said I’d make it up to ya.”

Knowing Athos was not the most talkative of people, Porthos hadn’t been expecting much in the way of conversation over dinner, so when Athos turned his attention back to his plate of lasagne he thought that would be the extent of it. Another word that could never be used to describe Athos, however, was predictable.

“What did you study?” Porthos was momentarily thrown by the change of direction, surprised that Athos even remembered him mentioning it. While his brain was trying to catch up, Athos helpfully added, “At university.”

“Photography.” He hitched a shoulder in a diffident shrug. It wasn’t the most intellectual of subjects, but it was an achievement he was proud of. It hadn’t even been about finding a way to prove himself to all those who had believed he would never make anything of his life. He had done it for himself, and had never cared what other people thought. Until now. “I do some freelance work now.”

“Have you had any interesting shoots?” Athos’s interest seemed genuine.

“It’s mostly stuff for catalogues and magazines.” Porthos wrinkled his nose. Most of the jobs he’d landed could hardly be described as ‘interesting’. “I once did a shoot with a rock band, which wasn’t as glamorous as it sounds. They were all dicks.”

There was that hint of a smile again, the slight curve of lips that Porthos was desperate to see bloom into a full-blown grin.

“What about you?” he asked. “What’s the job you want to get back to?”

The tiny smile vanished, and Porthos feared Athos was about to retreat again, but after a minute’s contemplation of his fork, Athos’s gaze returned to Porthos.

“I’m a cop.”

He hadn’t been expecting _that_. “Really?”

“I know it must be difficult to believe, but yes.”

Somehow, picturing Athos as a police officer wasn’t such a stretch of the imagination. “Nah, I think it makes perfect sense.”

“Because there’s always one who’s a miserable bastard with a propensity towards alcoholism?” A flicker of amusement returned to Athos’s eyes. “You’ve been watching too much television.”

Porthos snorted a laugh. “Probably,” he admitted, “but no. It’s because of the way you always pick a seat that gives you a view of the room. And how you’ve extracted my entire life story while I still know next to nothin’ about you.”

Athos considered that, his expression just as unreadable as ever. Porthos realised he was holding his breath, waiting to see if Athos would evade the question that hung unasked but palpable in the air between them.

“What would you like to know?”

 _Everything_.

It was the first time Athos had shown any desire to open up and Porthos was almost afraid to risk shattering that tentative offer. His curiosity, however, got the better of him.

“You said you used to ride. Why’d you stop?”

A shadow passed across Athos’s face and Porthos sensed the shutters descending once more. What he had thought was a relatively safe question was clearly anything but. He must have touched on something painful, and he now remembered the sombre look in Athos’s eyes when they had last spoken about motorcycles. His fear that he had made a mistake was confirmed when Athos replied, his voice a flat monotone.

“Because it’s illegal to drink and drive.”

It was an evasion and Porthos considered letting it go, letting Athos hide behind the half-truth, but he couldn’t, not when they had come so far. Rather than pressing him, Porthos employed a tactic he had so often witnessed Aramis using. Saying nothing, he waited patiently, giving Athos all the time he needed. The silence stretched, broken only by the sound of the tines of Athos’s fork clinking restlessly against his plate, but just when it began to seem that he would shy away once again, he spoke.

“It’s a passion I shared with my brother. As soon as we were old enough, we each bought a bike and spent the weekends working on them or taking them out on the road.” His lips twitched in a small, sad smile at the memory. “It was an adrenaline rush for Thomas, a way to unwind for me.”

It was difficult to imagine Athos doing something so carefree, having fun, and it was a glimpse of what must be hiding beneath that gloomy exterior. Now, however, there was no sign of any such spark.

“About a year ago, he came round one evening to collect his bike. Two hours later, I received a phone call from the hospital.” He didn’t need to elaborate on the details of that call. Porthos’s stomach clenched in horror. “The official report concluded the accident was most likely due to human error, but the extent of the damage meant they were unable to rule out mechanical failure as a contributing factor.” Athos must have read that report countless times, had probably memorised it, the stark, clinical details of his brother’s final moments indelibly printed on his brain. He paused, drew a shaky breath, his gaze fixed on his fork but lost somewhere in the past.

Porthos recalled what Athos had said during that first conversation with Aramis at the group meeting. “But how could that have been your fault?”

The eyes that met his were dull with the pain of guilt. “Thomas was a natural on a bike. He never took stupid risks and was always so careful on the road. But he wasn’t as gifted when it came to the mechanics. He had asked me to take a look at his bike because he’d been having problems with the clutch. I thought I had…I thought it was okay.”

Understanding hit Porthos like a punch to the gut. No wonder Athos was so laden with guilt; even without conclusive evidence, he had shouldered the blame, and must have spent the past year torturing himself with _what if_ s and _if only_ s.

Watching impotently as Athos closed his eyes in an attempt to ward off the memory, Porthos wished there was something he could say to banish his grief and remorse, but all the usual platitudes sounded empty, meaningless, even in his head. Aramis would doubtless have the words, but Porthos had always relied on actions. Reaching across, he brushed his fingertips over the back of Athos’s hand, drawing him back to the present with a touch.

“He was my little brother. I was supposed to protect him.” His voice was hoarse with wretched agony, and Porthos’s chest tightened with a fierce ache of sympathy. “It should’ve been me.”

“No!” The force of Porthos’s immediate response made Athos flinch. “Don’t think that. Fate c’n be a bastard sometimes, but there’s nothin’ you coulda done to change it.”

“I know you’re right,” Athos acknowledged miserably. “But I don’t think I’ll ever truly believe it.”

Porthos held his gaze, wishing he could erase that misplaced guilt through sheer force of will. “You can’t keep punishin’ yourself for something that was out of your control.”

It took a while, but Athos eventually gave a slow nod. It was only a tentative agreement, but it was another step in the right direction.

“I’m sorry.” The apology was coupled with a self-reproachful twist of his lip. “This is not the most pleasant conversation to be having over dinner.”

Porthos waved away his concern. He was the one who had broached the subject, albeit unintentionally, and if it had prompted such candour it couldn’t be a bad thing. They returned to their meal, and although several minutes passed with no further conversation, the silence between them no longer felt like it was concealing an impassable chasm. The distance Athos had until now firmly maintained had been banished, and Porthos finally felt no need to tiptoe around him. But what really gave him hope was that Athos didn’t seem to regret having opened up, appeared more relaxed now he wasn’t hunkered down behind those protective walls.

Porthos had finished his lasagne, quietly pleased with his foray into cookery, by the time Athos admitted defeat. Placing his knife and fork neatly on his plate, he apologised for being unable to finish his portion.

“It’s delicious, but I haven’t had much of an appetite lately.”

Given that he had been fighting his dependence on alcohol, Athos’s loss of appetite was understandable. He would no doubt have been suffering from the symptoms of withdrawal to some extent, but Porthos was pleased to see that the faraway look his eyes had held the past few days had now receded and his hands had lost that almost imperceptible tremor.

“I won’t take it as a slur on my cooking,” Porthos said with a smile, rising to clear away the plates. Athos insisted on helping him load the dishwasher, and there was something pleasantly comfortable about the simple domesticity of sharing the chore.

When they were done, Porthos led Athos through to the lounge and waved a hand toward the sofa in invitation. As soon as he had sat down, Porthos thrust a PlayStation controller at him.

“You know how to play, right?”

Athos looked at the thing in his hand as if it were an incomprehensible alien device. “I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it.”

Sinking onto the cushion beside him, Porthos started _FIFA_ and set up a friendly match as he gave Athos a rundown of the controls, stifling a laugh at the look of bewilderment on his face.

“Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on ya.”

“Oh, don’t hold back on my account.”

There was something about the way that sounded, delivered in Athos’s precise drawl, that made Porthos’s blood heat. Doing his best to ignore it, he started the game and forced himself to focus on the screen.

For the first few minutes, Porthos remained true to his word and avoided launching his usual attack, but it wasn’t long before Athos had mastered the controls. He was, however, lacking Porthos’s many hours of practise and so it came as no surprise when he conceded the first goal. After that, he successfully held off each subsequent attempt with a combination of luck and what Porthos could only assume was a hitherto dormant natural aptitude for virtual sport.

They had just hit half-time when the door of the flat opened. Aramis greeted them both with a warm smile, and if he was surprised to see Athos there he hid it well. His eyes darted to the television screen and he winced in sympathy.

“You’re a mean bastard, Porthos.”

Porthos laughed, shaking his head in protest. “It’s only one-nil. He’s puttin’ up a decent defence.”

“Pure chance,” Athos insisted. “I’m never entirely certain which little man I’m controlling at any given time.”

“You’re doin’ better than Aramis.”

Aramis scowled and swatted Porthos on the back of the head, then, lowering his voice as if sharing a great secret, he addressed Athos. “The trick is to distract him.” Ignoring Porthos’s indignant grunt, he flashed them both a grin and continued on his way through to his bedroom. “If you need me to rescue you from this torture, Athos, just shout.”

“Ignore ’im,” Porthos said, raising his voice as Aramis disappeared down the hall. “He only hates it ’cause I always win!”

Porthos caught Athos’s look of amusement before he ducked his head and lowered his gaze to his lap, caught off-guard by his inclusion in their friendly banter.

“Ready?” Porthos asked, poised to resume the match.

“As I’ll ever be.”

The second half began uneventfully until Porthos intercepted a pass, and with a deft flick of his thumb he was again advancing on goal. Just as he was moving his striker into position, he felt the pressure of Athos’s knee against his own, barely there but warm and constant. Shooting a glance to the side, he caught sight of Athos’s profile. He was still focused intently on the screen, giving the game his full concentration, and if the contact was an accident, he seemed in no hurry to move away. And if he was taking Aramis’s advice and attempting a distraction, it was working.

“Shit!” Porthos’s shot went wide. Athos gave him a quick grimace of commiseration, but there was a glint of mischief in his eyes as he took the goal kick.

Porthos quickly reclaimed control but, eager to regain the upper hand, he was perhaps a little too vigorous in his attack and lost the ball to a well-timed tackle. Before he could recover, Athos had slipped past his neglected defence and, seconds later, the ball was in the net.

“You’re kiddin’ me.” He gaped at the screen, then glared at Athos, his competitive streak flaring to life. “Right. Now it’s really on.”

Despite his best efforts, Porthos’s reputation suffered another devastating blow when a poor tackle resulted in a red card. With a grunt of annoyance at what he believed to be an unfair decision, he fought valiantly to restore his battered pride, an endeavour that was shot to hell by the return of Athos’s knee. Only this time it was his entire thigh, and, if it had been an accident before, Porthos was almost completely certain it was now deliberate.

He was so preoccupied by the persistent contact he almost missed the moment Athos’s second goal went in. His incredulous curse was directed entirely at himself.

Moments later, the whistle blew to end the match, and Porthos stared at the score displayed on the screen in disbelief. “You can’t tell Aramis about this,” he pleaded, only half joking. “I’ll never live it down.”

He heard the soft huff of a laugh beside him and turned in time to see the smile he had been waiting for – one so free and natural it made those ocean eyes gleam with life – and his defeat no longer mattered. But a second later it had vanished, and Athos shrank away, stricken by a remorse that drained away all trace of that happy vitality.

“Hey.” Porthos spoke softly, drawing Athos back from the despair that threatened to engulf him again, guessing the reason for his spirit’s sudden deflation. “You are allowed to enjoy yourself.”

Athos’s response was heartbreakingly disconsolate. “It doesn’t seem right somehow.”

That desire to both shake him and drag him into a hug returned, and it was the latter from which Porthos had to work hardest to restrain himself. “What d’you think Thomas would say if he was here?”

“Ah. So that’s what all this is. A ploy to get me to talk about my feelings.”

Mortified, Porthos shook his head, fumbled his way through the beginnings of a retraction. “No, that’s not—” He stopped when he caught the hint of a smile playing at the corner of Athos’s mouth. “Git.” He bumped Athos’s shoulder with his own. “I’m sorry.”

“No.” Athos brushed Porthos’s apology aside. “You’re right. If Thomas were here, he would tell me to stop feeling sorry for myself and get my act together.”

“Sound advice.”

Athos nodded and offered him a more sanguine smile. “Thank you.”

Porthos was still trying to figure out exactly what he was being thanked for when Athos gestured at the television with his controller.

“Would you like a chance to redeem yourself?”

“Suffer another humiliatin’ defeat, y’mean?”

Athos playfully raised an eyebrow in challenge, one Porthos was not about to refuse.

Being trounced by Athos didn’t feel like a true loss.

* * * *

Aramis emerged from his room and dropped into the armchair, watching Porthos stow the PlayStation controllers away. Athos had left a few minutes ago, and Aramis had ostensibly given up on work now his curiosity could be allowed free rein. Porthos felt the weight of it settling upon him even before Aramis spoke.

“First coffee, then a picnic, and now dinner? Should I be renting a tux?”

“It’s not like that,” Porthos insisted, but it sounded false even to his own ears. Not in the least bit fooled, Aramis fixed him with an expectant gaze. It was the same strategy Porthos had used earlier on Athos, and although he recognised it for what it was, it worked.

“Okay,” he confessed with a sigh, sinking back onto the sofa. “It is a bit like that.” He shook his head, despairing of his poor attempt at remaining impartial. “He’s the most infuriatingly self-contained sod I’ve ever met, but I like him.”

“You are allowed to have feelings. Just bear in mind what he’s going through right now.”

That wasn’t something Porthos was likely to forget in a hurry, but he was determined not to let it define their burgeoning friendship.


	5. Chapter 5

“I don’t know how you did it, but I’m impressed.”

Porthos shrugged as he joined Aramis in the community hall’s tiny kitchen with the last tray of cups. “I didn’t really do anythin’. Fed him dinner and subjected him to _FIFA_.”

He had told Aramis how Athos had opened up to him, leaving out the details in respect of Athos’s privacy. Aramis had been pleased, certain it marked a major milestone in Athos’s recovery, but neither of them had been prepared for the change Athos had shown at that evening’s meeting. He had not only contributed to the discussion, but also voluntarily shared some of his own experiences while encouraging another recent new arrival to speak out.

“Whatever you did, it worked.”

“Must’ve been my natural, irresistible charm.”

Aramis’s laugh was loud in the small room. “Ah, yes. That must be it!”

Porthos snorted and punched him on the shoulder, but his chagrin was all pretence. Seeing Athos emerge from that pit of despair had been a joy. He had witnessed a hint of the honourable spirit and dry wit concealed by devastation and guilt, and if he’d had even the smallest influence on the receding of the darkness that had hidden those qualities, he was happy.

“Just keep doing what you’re doing,” Aramis advised, serious now, and Porthos nodded. He intended to do just that.

With the hall returned to a tidy state, Porthos collected his jacket and helmet and went outside to fetch his bike. Finding Athos propped against the wall beside it was a pleasant surprise, and he completely failed to contain the grin he felt spreading across his face at the unexpected sight. Seeing him approach, Athos took a final drag of his cigarette, crushing the butt beneath his shoe as Porthos joined him.

“You been waitin’ for me?” Porthos’s question was entirely redundant, but he couldn’t help seeking confirmation when such a thing was so out of character. Except for that time it had been raining, Athos always took off as soon as the meeting was over.

If Athos thought the question stupid, he gave no sign, just an answering nod.

“Sorry.” Had Porthos realised, he wouldn’t have kept him waiting. “We were clearing up.”

“You should have said. I would’ve helped had I known.”

“I’ll hold ya to that next time.”

Athos shoved his hands into his pockets, his gaze slipping briefly from Porthos’s, hesitant now. Porthos didn’t think he had been hanging around just to retrospectively offer his assistance, and so he waited, knowing Athos would speak when he was ready. He was fast learning that patient, understanding friendship was what Athos needed most.

“I have something you might like to see.”

Assailed by a multitude of possibilities for what that _something_ could be, and just how much he would like to see each and every one of them, Porthos’s eyebrows shot up.

“I’ll bet you do.” It sounded more lascivious than he had intended, but it brought one of those tiny smiles to the corner of Athos’s mouth as his eyes rolled skyward, a hint of colour in his cheeks.

“No betting, Porthos,” Athos chided amiably, before a quick downward glance betrayed a flicker of nervous hesitation. “If you’re not busy tomorrow, come round to mine. Any time.”

If possible, Porthos’s smile grew even wider. “I’ll be there.”

* * * *

Waiting for Athos to open the door, Porthos felt like a teenager calling on his crush, nervous excitement fluttering in his stomach, and he told himself to be sensible. He was there as Athos’s sponsor, perhaps even his friend, and he had to concentrate on helping him through this rough patch. His own feelings, whatever they may be, would just have to wait.

His resolve faltered a little when the door swung open. Athos looked even scruffier than usual in a faded t-shirt and ratty jeans, but Porthos still felt a rush of pleasure and knew he was grinning like an idiot.

Rather than invite him in, Athos stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind him. Porthos must have looked confused because Athos gave him an enigmatic, teasing smile before inclining his head toward the corner of the house, a clear invitation to follow him in that direction.

Porthos was led along a narrow alley, and then across a sizeable but untended garden to a paved courtyard whose only other access point was a private lane, just visible behind a screen of bushes in the far corner. Their destination was a brick outhouse that Porthos assumed to be a garage. As he stepped inside he found it was being used as both a storage area and a workroom, but it wasn’t the structure itself that captured his attention, but its contents. In the centre of the concrete floor sat a beautiful example of classic motorcycle design, a Triumph Bonneville t120, the 1968 model if Porthos could trust his own appraisal.

Several of the bike’s component parts were scattered across an oily dustsheet on the floor but that couldn’t detract from the beauty of the machine. Entranced, Porthos stepped forward for a closer look, full of admiration for the bike and a fuzzy pleasure that Athos had offered to show him what he could only assume must be a prized possession. He completed a full circuit, taking in every detail and deciding its only fault to be the need for a good overhaul and polish, and when he finally looked up it was to find Athos watching him. He met his gaze with a wide grin.

“Bloody gorgeous.” It was a low, appreciative growl of admiration, and a flush crept up Athos’s neck, colouring his pale skin. Porthos hadn’t really meant for the compliment to have such an ambiguous target but he enjoyed the reaction nonetheless, wondered how far the blush spread as it disappeared beneath that frayed collar.

With a great deal of effort, Porthos forced himself to stop staring and returned his attention to the bike as Athos joined him beside it.

“What you said the other night…” Athos’s voice was quiet, contemplative. “You made me realise Thomas would hate to know this was sat here, slowly rusting.” He brushed a light touch along the length of the leather seat, reverent. “I’m going to get it back on the road. For him.”

“That’s brilliant!” Porthos wasn’t only pleased about seeing a classic bike back in action, but that Athos had found something to focus on and occupy himself with. Having this as a distraction could prove to be just what he needed to get him through this tough time. It was a brave step considering what happened to his brother, but it looked like Athos was now ready to face those memories head on. “Somethin’ this beautiful shouldn’t be hidden away.”

“I thought you might like to help.” It was almost a question, as if Athos was still unsure of the boundaries of their relationship, or of what their relationship _ought_ to be. Porthos wasn’t exactly best placed to offer guidance on that particular subject, and he found himself nodding with happy enthusiasm.

“You hafta ask?” He grinned as he rubbed his hands together, raring to go. “Just tell me where you want me.”

Porthos caught the fleeting smirk before Athos turned away to fetch tools from the workbench sat against the far wall.

They passed a companionable few hours, Athos giving instruction and Porthos absorbing himself in the tasks. It was obvious Athos knew what he was doing, and Porthos deferred to his expertise, but even polishing chromework turned out to be an enjoyable way to spend an afternoon. They fell into easy conversation, and for the first time Porthos didn’t have to work to extract information from Athos. He spoke without reluctance about his job, telling Porthos about his partner, a young man he was clearly very proud of, until he unexpectedly lapsed back into silence, his hands stilling.

“I’ve let d’Artagnan down, too.” Porthos hated to hear Athos’s sombre tone return. “I’ve been a terrible role model.”

“He’ll understand.” If d’Artagnan was half as good a man as Athos had made him out to be, there was no way he would condemn Athos for succumbing to his grief. “He won’t think any less of you. Not if you beat this.”

The ghost of a hopeful smile flitted across Athos’s lips. “I don’t know how I’ll ever regain his respect.”

“I doubt you ever lost it.”

Athos stared at him, nonplussed by the show of unwavering faith. Athos seemed to think of himself as a hopelessly lost cause, whereas Porthos knew that wasn’t the case. If only he could make Athos see it, too.

“Let’s get you back to work first, yeah?” He gave Athos’s shoulder a squeeze. “And I c’n say ‘I told ya so’ later.”

The smile he received was full of gratitude, and whether Athos believed Porthos or not, he was at least willing to allow a little cautious optimism to fend off the gloom that had threatened to return. A quick brush of fingertips across Porthos’s hand, and then Athos turned back to the workbench, ducking his head shyly.

After another ten minutes of mechanics, Athos declared that they had earned some tea. A brief trip to the house later, he reappeared with two steaming, mismatched mugs of strong, sweet tea. It was a sight that had Porthos laughing.

“A proper builder’s brew, that.”

Athos raised an eyebrow. “You were expecting my best china?”

“Nah, I’d only break it.” Porthos’s smile masked the electric spark he felt at the brush of fingers as he accepted one of the mugs.

“Then it’s lucky I don’t have any china.”

By mutual consent, they decided to finish up their work, although Porthos was reluctant to call it a day. Glancing at his watch, he was surprised to see just how much time had passed, but was content to remain right where he was, propped up against the workbench beside Athos, drinking tea. And was it his imagination, or did Athos also seem disappointed to have reached the bottom of his mug? He found a spot to place it amongst the assorted tools scattered across the surface of the bench, sweeping back his hair with the heel of his other hand as it fell into his eyes. When he looked up, Porthos couldn’t contain a snort of fond amusement.

Athos frowned, baffled. “What?”

“You’ve got…” Porthos stepped closer, gently swiped at the smudge of grease on Athos’s cheek with the pad of his thumb. Athos went still, his sharp intake of breath audible in the silence of the workroom, and Porthos met eyes that were wide, unblinking. He flattened his palm to Athos’s cheek, his touch now a caress as he gently tilted Athos’s face up, and they were so close Porthos could feel the heat of his body and it felt like the most natural thing in the world to kiss him.

Closing his eyes, Porthos lost himself in the feel of Athos, the scratch of beard a heady counterpoint to soft, warm lips. His tongue swept along the seam of Athos’s mouth, desperate to taste, and delved inside when Athos’s lips parted in a silent gasp. There was the sweetness of the tea and an underlying bitterness of smoke that was oddly compelling, had Porthos licking deeper, chasing those conflicting flavours. He pressed forward, one hand at Athos’s waist as he brought them flush together, arching into him as his body responded, desperate for more.

Athos tensed against him, and Porthos realised with a sudden, sickening horror that he hadn’t moved at all, had only stood there passively as Porthos kissed him. Letting his hands drop away, Porthos stepped back, out of the personal space he had so unthinkingly invaded. Athos was still staring at him, eyes now bright with startled alarm. But it was his otherwise perfectly blank expression that had Porthos’s stomach sinking, cursing his own stupidity, for it was a sight he was well acquainted with, a sign Athos was shutting himself away, reinstating those barriers Porthos had fought so hard to raze.

And now he had ruined everything.

 _Shit_. “I—I’m so sorry,” Porthos stammered, wishing he could take it back, knowing an apology was inadequate. “I shouldn’t’ve done that.”

Athos made no reaction. Even having him rage in anger would have been better than that stricken silence.

“I’ll go.” Porthos edged towards the door, his legs numb, and still there was nothing from Athos. Such an immense fuck-up, and Porthos had no idea how to fix it, told himself he wasn’t a coward, that Athos needed some time alone, time to think without the threat of being pounced upon. “I’m sorry,” he repeated uselessly, chest tight with regret as he backed out of the garage and fled back across the lawn, cursing himself with every step.

* * * *

Aramis called a greeting from the kitchen as Porthos entered the flat, but it barely registered amidst the storm of guiltly remorse swirling angrily in his mind. He slumped onto the sofa, a growl of furious, wretched frustration escaping his lips.

“Porthos?” Aramis stuck his head around the doorframe, concerned.

“I’ve fucked everything up.”

That got Aramis’s full attention. Tossing the tea towel in his hand in the general direction of the sink, Aramis abandoned whatever he was doing in the kitchen and sank down in the chair opposite Porthos, eyes dark with worry. “What happened?”

Porthos was reluctant to admit his mistake so soon after Aramis had warned him about this very thing, but Aramis would get it out of him eventually. May as well bite the bullet and face up to it.

“Athos. I kissed ’im.”

“You…” Aramis stared at him, eyes wide. It wasn’t easy to render Aramis speechless, but Porthos had managed it with that particular revelation. “I’m guessing he didn’t react well.”

“He…” Porthos hadn’t stuck around long enough to have even the slightest idea of what Athos had been thinking, could only picture those alarmed eyes. “I dunno.” With a groan, he dropped his head into his hands. “I panicked and left.”

His words were mumbled, distorted by his hands, but Aramis heard them. “You _left_?”

His incredulity was not unwarranted, and Porthos groaned. “I know. Who does that?” And when had he started running away from his problems? “What if I’ve messed up his recovery? Set him back?” He would never forgive himself if that were the case. “I’m supposed to be helping him, not makin’ his life more complicated.”

“I’ll talk to him on Saturday.” Aramis’s tone was understanding rather than disappointed. He knew there was nothing he could say that would make Porthos feel any worse, but his concern for Athos was obvious in his thoughtful frown. Porthos was certain they were thinking the same thing: what if Athos avoided the next meeting?

“If ’e turns up.”

“He will. He’s too stubborn not to.”

Porthos hoped Aramis was right, that Athos wouldn’t let Porthos’s lack of self-control ruin what progress he had made. Porthos would even stay away if that would be for the best, if his absence would help. But that wasn’t what he wanted, despite having bolted earlier – a reaction he now bitterly regretted. No, he needed to make this right.

If he only knew how.

With a groan, he dropped his head back against the sofa cushions. “I thought you were the one who had all the complicated romantic issues.”

“We all make fools of ourselves sometimes.” How could Aramis be so calm about this? Porthos almost wished he would rail at him, tell him what moron he was. It was what he deserved. Perhaps if he’d seen the look on Athos’s face he wouldn’t be quite so unruffled.

“Only I have to go and do it in the most spectacular fuckin’ fashion, don’t I?”

But even the knowledge that he was the biggest dick on the planet couldn’t erase the memory of Athos’s lips on his, and Porthos hated himself for being unable to stop thinking about just how good it had felt.

Hated himself even more for what he’d done to Athos.


	6. Chapter 6

When Athos slipped through the door of the community hall, mere moments before Aramis called to begin, a weight lifted from Porthos’s shoulders. But it was a relief that was short lived.

It quickly became apparent Athos had made a return to his former, sullen self, distancing himself from the group, refusing to acknowledge anyone with even the briefest glance and responding to each of Aramis's attempts to draw him into the discussion with monosyllables. Despair was an ache deep inside Porthos's chest as he silently willed Athos to make a connection, not to withdraw from everybody else even if he couldn't bear to look at Porthos.

Anything would be better than this detachment. Porthos would even welcome a punch to the face, would rather suffer for his stupidity than watch Athos retreat back into himself.

The past two days had been hell, and several times Porthos had caught himself on the verge of calling Athos, thumb hovering above his name on his phone’s screen. But he couldn't even get the words straight in his head, let alone try to express them so impersonally over the phone. Aramis had attempted to reassure him, told him not to beat himself up until Athos had had the chance to think it through and settle his own emotions. It was wise advice, and Porthos had almost managed to follow it.

But the last shred of hope was dashed by the sight of that wretched figure, slumped in his chair, arms wrapped protectively around his chest. Porthos wished there was nobody else there, yet dreaded what Athos would reveal were it only the two of them present.

As soon as Aramis wound the meeting up, Athos was up and heading for the door. Porthos couldn't let him just go, couldn't leave it unresolved any longer. His feet were carrying him after Athos even before he had conceived any kind of plan.

"Athos!"

He must have heard, but Athos gave no sign as he pulled open the door. Reluctant to chase after him lest his pursuit be misconstrued as another unwanted advance, Porthos hesitated, conflict tearing at him as fought to choose the right course of action.

A hand on his arm quieted his internal tempest.

"I'll go."

Aramis's rescue was a relief, but one that made Porthos feel even worse. _He_ was the one who should be talking to Athos, not running away again while Aramis dealt with the fallout. But the one thing he didn't want to do was put Athos in a situation that made him uncomfortable. Not again.

It was with a heavy heart that he began tidying up, barely even noticing that everyone else was now gone, leaving him alone in a hall as empty as he felt inside. When he heard the door, he spun and looked to Aramis with nervous dread.

"How is he?"

Aramis's small smile was no comfort. "You know Athos. He doesn't give much away." That was true, but Porthos also knew how far he had come since they had first met and gloomy silence had been his default setting. "But he promised me he's not drinking."

"An' you believe him?" Above all else, Porthos hoped that was the case. He would resign himself to never speaking to Athos again if it meant he remained sober, however much it would pain him to do so.

"Yes."

If Aramis was convinced, it was either the truth or Aramis had suddenly lost his ability to read people so adeptly. Then again, alcoholics were accomplished liars.

Aramis, as always, guessed his thoughts. "He wouldn't risk ruining his chance to return to work, not now he's so close."

Porthos hoped with all his heart Aramis was right, and he had seen the evidence of a strong spirit beneath the turmoil. He had no right to think about himself, and yet the thought that he might have destroyed this new friendship he had come to value so much persisted as a physical ache in his chest.

He opened his mouth to speak but faltered, his tongue refusing to form the question he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to. Aramis, however, knew him too well, knew exactly what was on his mind.

“He asked me to pass on his apologies.”

“Apologies for what?”

Aramis shook his head, clearly wishing he had more to offer. “That’s all he would say.”

Was Athos blaming himself? Perhaps it shouldn't come as much of a surprise that Athos had taken it upon himself to shoulder the blame, even though Porthos was the only one in the wrong.

"How can I fix this?"

But even Aramis had no answer to that.

* * * *

Clawing his way up from the depths of sleep, it took Porthos several seconds to identify the source of the jangling disturbance that had awoken him. Groping for his phone he caught sight of the illuminated digits of the clock beside the bed. 2:18.

He squinted at the screen, suddenly fully alert as the caller's name registered in his foggy brain: Athos. In his haste to answer he almost accidentally rejected the call, his heart in his throat as he held the phone to his ear and hoped he wasn't dreaming.

"Athos?"

Silence. Porthos quickly checked to ensure the call was connected, wondering if Athos had rung him by accident before he caught the faint sound of a ragged breath, an unsteady inhalation that hissed through the speaker.

" _Athos?_ "

Another beat of silence, then Athos's voice in the darkness. "Can you..." The aborted question hung in the air for a moment, Porthos's concern mounting at the agitation in Athos's tone, at the sound of another shaky breath. "I need you."

It sounded like both a confession and a reluctant but desperate entreaty, and Porthos was already half way out of bed as he asked, "You at home?"

The confirmation was almost inaudible, but it was all Porthos needed. He was already dragging on his jeans one-handed. "I'll be right there."

* * * *

The front door was ajar, as if Athos hadn't stopped to close it properly. It was the kind of absent-minded oversight that Porthos couldn't picture Athos ever falling prey to. Not unless his mind had been preoccupied.

His mouth was dry as he entered the silent house, heart fluttering as he wondered what could have reduced Athos to such a state that had him desperately seeking company in the middle of the night, an action so uncharacteristic as to leave Porthos fearful.

There was no reply to his call, so Porthos began a methodical search, telling himself there was no need to hurry but feeling cold fingers of dread slowly worming their way down his spine.

His heart gave a lurch at the sight of the dishevelled figure huddled on the kitchen floor, swamped by an oversized hoodie that lent him a heartbreaking vulnerability. Athos made no reaction to his presence until Porthos had hunkered down right in front of him, getting his attention with a light touch to his knee.

The gaze that slowly met his was dull, the spark that Porthos had so enjoyed watching ignite now extinguished. It took a few seconds for Athos to focus, for recognition to flicker in the depths of those clouded eyes, and the soft sound he made - somewhere between a gasp and a sob - struck sharply at Porthos's heart.

"What's happened?" It was a gentle demand, Porthos aiming for calm while inside he was roiling, desperate to find the reason for Athos’s distress.

Athos squeezed his eyes shut, turned his face away as if ashamed, and it was only then that Porthos saw the bottle sat on the worktop above him. So focused had he been on Athos he hadn’t noticed it until now, and it finally provided his answer, albeit one that had his heart sinking in dismay.

A single malt Scotch, the seal around the collar broken.

“Did you drink any of that?" It was impossible to tell from where Porthos was crouched, yet his question was heavy with concern, not accusation.

Athos shook his head, a jerky side-to-side motion. "No."

Porthos stared at him, could detect no trace of a lie. "Good. That's good."

"I wanted to. I almost did." It sounded like an apology. "I made myself call you instead."

Relief was quickly swamped by a wave of guilt, crashing over Porthos as he looked into those tired, tortured eyes. If it hadn't been for him, Athos would never have found himself in such a state as to consider giving in to temptation, would have had no reason to be seeking an escape. What must it have taken for Athos to call him, the man who had screwed around with his feelings so carelessly? Was he really so alone that he'd had no other choice? It only made Porthos feel worse, to realise just how alone Athos truly was.

Porthos opened his mouth to begin an apology, to say what should have been said two days ago, but the words caught yet again, stayed by the touch to his hand.

"Thank you."

 _What the hell for?_ If Porthos had been the one to send Athos back into the clutches of his addiction, thanks was the last thing he deserved.

“Don’t thank me.” His voice was gruff, his throat tight. “I ain’t done anythin’ to earn it.”

Confusion crossed Athos’s features. “You have,” he said solemnly. “More than you know.”

Porthos shook his head in frustration, bewildered by Athos’s determination to shoulder the blame for things that were out of his control. But the kitchen floor wasn’t the place for this kind of conversation.

"Let's get you up off that floor, eh? Can't be comfortable down there."

Athos took the hand offered to him and let Porthos pull him to his feet, his gaze automatically seeking the bottle of whisky, a reflex reaction he probably wasn’t even aware of.

Porthos squeezed the fingers he still held in his hand. “You don’t need that.”

Athos blinked, expression swiftly shifting from startled to guilty to angry. It finally settled on firm resolve and, pulling his hand free from Porthos’s grasp, he grabbed the bottle. Frozen in horror, Porthos watched as Athos wrenched out the cork, and his mind had jumped ahead to the logical conclusion even as he heard liquid splashing against metal. Athos had upended the bottle into the sink, turning on the tap with a violent twist of his wrist, and panic became pride as Athos surprised him once again. Guilt followed swiftly on its heels for assuming the worst, for considering, even for that fleeting moment, that Athos had been about throw himself off the wagon.

Porthos didn’t have time to consider just how much of a dick he was, for as soon as he saw the white-knuckled grip Athos had on the edge of the sink, the way his gaze was fixed unblinking upon the whisky swirling away down the drain, its rich, earthy aroma thick in the air, his own feelings paled into insignificance.

Porthos placed a hand on Athos's shoulder, heartened when he didn't flinch away, and, with a gentle squeeze, he drew Athos's attention away from the sink, away from the dependency he was trying so hard to fight. Athos turned to him, his eyes unnaturally bright, and offered no resistance when Porthos pulled him into a tight hug.

* * * *

A mug of sweet tea in his hand, Porthos found Athos huddled in one corner of the sofa, twisting a pack of cigarettes between restless fingers.

“Smoke if you want. I don’t mind.”

Startled from his thoughts, Athos considered the battered packet for a moment before tossing it onto the coffee table with a sound of disgust. He dropped his head into his hand, more despondent than Porthos had yet seen him.

“God, I’m pathetic.”

“No.” Porthos’s response was immediate and vehement. “You didn’t give in, did you?” Careful to leave a little distance between them, he sat down on the cushion beside Athos, willing him not to let his self-contempt reclaim its hold. “You’re stronger than you think.”

“I don’t feel strong.”

Porthos passed Athos the tea, caught his eye as he gave a tiny smile of thanks and wrapped both hands around the mug to disguise the tremor that had returned. “I know what it must’ve taken for you to pour that whisky away,” he continued, just as passionately. “If that ain’t a sign of strength, I don’t know what is.”

A quiet, noncommittal grunt was Athos’s only response. He took a sip of the tea, rested the mug back in his lap, watching the steam curling lazily up from its depths. He looked so dispirited, so much like that desolate lost soul Porthos had first met, that it made Porthos’s chest hurt.

 _This is my fault_.

“I’m sorry.” He’d said it before, still hated that it wasn’t enough.

“The tea’s not that bad.”

The deadpan delivery threw Porthos for a second, then he snorted a laugh, taken aback by the unexpected glimpse of Athos’s dry humour but pleased at its return. Perhaps all was not lost.

“You know what I mean.” Porthos decided to just bite the bullet and say it, apologise as best he could. “The other day. I never meant to…well, I _did_ mean to, but I shouldn’t’ve done it. Not when you were doin’ so well.”

Confusion crossed Athos’s face, only to suddenly clear as he deduced the reason for Porthos’s repeated apologies and evident guilt.

“Oh, no. Porthos, it wasn’t that.” He hurried to explain, to amend a misunderstanding he hadn’t been aware of causing. “Being kissed by you was not so terrible as to drive me back to drink.”

Now Porthos was the one confused. “Then what was all that about?” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the kitchen and the revealing whisky bottle now lying empty in the sink. “Won’t lie, you scared me for a second back there.”

Athos looked contrite. “I’m sorry. That was never my intention, but I don’t blame you. I think I even doubted myself for a moment.” It was a confession he made freely, his trust in Porthos intact. “I was…disappointed when you left. I thought you’d come to your senses, realised your mistake.”

“My only mistake was not thinkin’ before I acted. Aramis’ll tell you I’m famous for it.” Porthos grimaced at his own impetuous behaviour. “When you didn’t react I thought I’d fucked up. Forgive me for bein’ such an idiot?”

“You’re not an idiot. You took me by surprise and I froze. I’ve never been very good at this sort of thing, and my head’s in a bit of a mess at the moment.”

Porthos knew that, which only made what he’d done all the more unforgivable. “I’ve not been much help, have I?”

“You have,” Athos assured him immediately, leaving no room for argument. “Honestly. If not for you, I would have polished off that bottle hours ago.”

“But you were only tempted in the first place because of me.” Porthos felt terrible.

“No, not because of you. Because I thought I’d driven you away. I was determined not to fall back on that crutch again, but when it was right there in front of me it became so difficult to resist.”

That only raised more questions. If Athos hadn’t been in such a state as to go in search of a drink, how did he come to have a bottle of Scotch in his kitchen?

“But if you didn’t buy it, where’d it come from?”

Athos frowned, as if only now thinking to question the bottle’s presence. “It was on the doorstep when I got home.”

“Someone left it for you?” Even if it had been someone unaware of Athos’s alcoholism, it was a strange gift to leave at someone’s door. And if it _had_ been left on purpose…the thought sparked Porthos’s fury. “Who would do that?” 

“I’ve no idea. There was no tag.”

“If I ever catch the bastard, I’ll wring his neck.” It was no empty threat and Porthos meant every word, but his anger dissipated when he saw the smile tugging at Athos’s lip.

“You’ve done more than enough already.”

Porthos’s grin was sheepish, for not everything he’d done had been wise, but seeing the tension ebb from Athos’s shoulders was enough to put him at ease again. Porthos caught the shy smile before it was hidden behind hair and mug as Athos returned to his tea with more enthusiasm than before and the silence that settled around them was comfortable, companionable.

Athos leant forward to place the empty mug on the table and when he sat back the gap between them had disappeared. When he didn’t shift away Porthos dared to slip an arm around his shoulders. That Athos willingly slumped against him was surprising enough, but then he felt the tickle of hair at his neck as Athos laid his head on his shoulder.

“Thank you for coming.” Soft and solemn in the still silence.

“I said you could call me anytime.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d answer.” Porthos felt the rise of Athos’s chest as he drew in a fortifying breath. “I’m glad I haven’t lost you.”

“’Course not,” Porthos assured him before echoing the words Athos had spoken to him on the hilltop, gruff and sincere. “You’ll always have me.”

Athos didn't answer, but he didn't need to. His weight against Porthos's side was telling enough.

Their mistakes forgiven and forgotten, they sat that way for a while, the late hour finally catching up with them both. Porthos was just beginning to wonder if Athos had fallen asleep when he stirred, raised his head.

“As comfortable as I am, I can’t make you sit here with me all night.”

“I don’t mind.”

Athos’s smile was almost a smirk. “I’m sure you don’t, but we should both get some sleep.”

Reluctantly, Porthos let him up. Convinced now that Athos had shaken free from his earlier distress, there was no reason for Porthos to stay, and yet he didn’t want to leave, not now it seemed the fence had finally been mended.

Athos rummaged in a drawer, returning to Porthos when he had found what it was he had been searching for.

“If you could please lock up when you leave.”

“Sure.” Porthos took the proffered key, caught Athos’s fingers in his own and held them secure, waited until Athos looked at him.

“G’night, Athos.”

A beat, then Athos leant in, tilting his chin up and brushing his lips against Porthos’s in a barely there kiss that stole Porthos’s breath.

“Good night, Porthos.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [ComeHitherAshes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeHitherAshes) for the typo-spotting, encouragement, and everything else.


	7. Chapter 7

Hearing footsteps, Porthos turned to find Athos watching him from the kitchen doorway, staring in utter bewilderment.

Porthos greeted him with a smile and a bright, “’Mornin’,” deliberately not thinking about how Athos’s sleep-mussed hair looked so endearingly adorable as he turned back to tend to the pan heating on the hob. “There ain’t much in your cupboards, so I hope scrambled eggs’ll do for breakfast.” Even the bread he’d found abandoned on the worktop had only just about been salvageable for toast.

When he received no reply, Porthos looked back over his shoulder to find Athos hadn’t moved.

“You stayed.” It was little more than a whisper, a note of incredulity beneath the astonishment.

Porthos grinned confirmation. “Your sofa’s comfortable, but a bit small for a big guy like me.”

Athos was too dumbfounded to raise a smile. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know. But I did.”

Athos blinked. He seemed to be having trouble getting his head around the idea that Porthos would want to stay.

“C’mon.” Porthos waved him in. “It’s almost ready.”

Athos obeyed and took a seat at the kitchen table, but he still looked dazed when Porthos placed a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him. “You always seem to be feeding me.”

“I’m just lookin’ out for you.”

“Making sure I don’t put vodka on my Cornflakes?”

“No, that’s not…” Suddenly aware of what his presence must suggest, Porthos hurried to explain, his words tumbling over themselves. “I didn’t think you would…” He paused, took a breath and settled on the simple truth. “I just wanted to be here for you. _With_ you.”

Athos stared at him. “Why?”

His lack of self-worth was heartbreaking but it only made Porthos all the more determined to find a way to help him build it back up. “It may’ve escaped your notice, but I like you, you prat.”

Athos dropped his gaze, but not before Porthos saw the flush spread across his cheeks.

“I’ll go, if you want me to.”

Athos shook his head, a quick, decisive movement.

“Good. ’Cause you should know, I ain’t normally in the habit of runnin’ away. From anythin’.”

“I’ll do my very best not to freak out on you again.”

Porthos reached out across the table and covered Athos’s hand with his own. They shared a smile of acceptance, understanding, and forgiveness. Nothing more needed to be said.

“Now eat up, then we can find a supermarket to restock your cupboards.”

Athos picked up his knife, then raised an eyebrow. “May I have my hand back?”

“Nah,” Porthos laughed, encouraged by the amusement in Athos’s eyes as he deliberately held on tighter. “You’ve got two, I’m gonna keep this one.”

Athos rolled his eyes but didn’t hide his smile.

* * * *

Athos was preparing tea, Porthos clearing away the mess from breakfast, when the doorbell chimed. From the look of surprise on Athos’s face, it was obvious he wasn’t expecting visitors, and Porthos couldn’t help but remember the strange gift he had been left.

Maybe Athos was thinking the same thing, for he hesitated, gaze flicking to Porthos for a second before he went to answer the door. A few moments later, Porthos heard the low rumble of voices. He couldn’t make out what was being said, but heard Athos respond to another male voice. Nothing seemed amiss, so Porthos returned to replacing plates in their cupboard, not wanting to eavesdrop, even by accident.

It was only a minute, however, before Athos reappeared with another man at his shoulder. The visitor—in his late forties, smartly dressed, and possessing a natural air of command—betrayed a quick flash of surprise at finding a barefoot stranger in Athos’s kitchen, but he recovered quickly.

“Sir, this is Porthos.” Athos sounded composed enough as he made the introductions, but Porthos detected a trace of apprehension in the way now held his shoulders more stiffly than at breakfast. “Porthos, Detective Chief Superintendent Treville, the man you have to thank for having me foist upon you.”

“John,” Treville amended, extending his hand to Porthos before turning a stern gaze on Athos. “I have not been foisting you anywhere, Athos. I only have your best interests at heart.”

Athos stared at him in defiance for a moment before dropping his gaze to his feet in chastened acknowledgment. “I know.”

Treville might have appeared, on the surface, the very definition of a stony, uncompromising superior officer, but there was a softness in the way he looked at Athos that suggested a deep-rooted affection for the younger man, and Porthos did silently thank him. For making the decision to help Athos rather than writing him off.

“I don’t want to interrupt your Sunday,” Treville said apologetically. “But if I could have a quick word, Athos?”

“Of course.”

Assuming they would want some privacy, Porthos volunteered to take over the making of the tea, and Treville accepted his offer of a cup. Athos took Treville through to the living room, and Porthos set about his task slowly enough to give them time to talk, hoping like hell it wasn’t bad news.

Thankfully, when he delivered the mugs of tea, Athos looked up at him with a smile.

“Treville says I can return to work.”

“Hey, that’s brilliant!”

Porthos sat down beside Athos, and if Treville hadn’t been there he might have risked a hug. It was great to see Athos finally looking to the future with that vital spark behind his eyes, happy.

“Hold your horses,” Treville said gently. “I said I would make a decision following our meeting tomorrow.”

Athos deflated a little at that, so Porthos bumped his shoulder.

“I’m pretty sure he means to talk, not torture you.”

“One can never be sure with Treville.”

Porthos bit back a laugh, but then noticed the long-suffering amusement in Treville’s eyes. It seemed they were both willing to overlook Athos’s cheeky impudence considering it was a sign of his continued high spirits.

“It’s just a formality.” Treville seemed just as keen to have Athos back as Athos was to return, but he was constrained by the regulations and procedures he had already bent to their limits in his desire to help Athos. He clearly took his duty of care very seriously, but Porthos had a feeling it ran deeper than that. The way he looked at Athos with that fond smile.

And, beneath that prickly exterior, it was obvious Athos appreciated that concern even if he didn’t believe he was deserving of it.

“Thank you. For everything.”

The words were soft but heartfelt, Athos’s earlier sass replaced by sincere gratitude. The difference between this Athos and the one Porthos had met just over a month ago—stubborn, belligerent, and withdrawn—was striking, a change that clearly hadn’t gone unnoticed by Treville.

“You know what you can do to thank me.”

“Yes, remain on the wagon.” Athos looked to Treville and Porthos in turn, including them both in his reply. “Don’t worry, I intend to do just that.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Treville, convinced, settled back with his mug of tea. “Everyone’s looking forward to your return.”

Athos huffed a laugh. “Has Rochefort driven d’Artagnan mad already?”

“It’s been a…bumpy ride.”

“Rochefort has been standing in for me in my absence,” Athos explained for Porthos’s benefit, and it wasn’t difficult to deduce that no one was particularly thrilled about the situation. “I doubt he’ll be so keen to see me back.”

Treville made no reply, but even Porthos could read the truth in his small, diplomatic smile.

Their conversation moved into safer territory, Athos more at ease and relaxed than Porthos had ever seen him, the trials of the previous night forgotten. For all Athos appeared averse to company, he seemed perfectly happy passing the time talking about nothing more important than the Champion’s League. Or, more accurately, rolling his eyes as Porthos and Treville argued over the disallowed goal in West Ham’s last match.

It was only when Treville glanced at his watch that Porthos realised an hour had passed.

“Right,” Treville said, rising to his feet. “I’ve taken up far too much of your time. I’ll leave you boys to it.” He took his empty mug through to the kitchen on the way to fetch his coat, Athos and Porthos following behind to see him out, but when Treville reappeared in the hallway, he had lost his jovial demeanour.

The reason became clear when he rounded on them, brandishing the whisky bottle, hard eyes fixed upon Athos.

“What’s this?”

“I…” Athos stammered, frozen in place, eyes wide with fear. The bottle in Treville’s hand may as well have been a loaded gun. “It’s not…” He trailed off again, certain any denial would be instantly disbelieved, all trace of his earlier smile gone. Porthos, hating the crestfallen droop of his shoulders, the way his eyes had dulled, spoke up for him.

“It’s not his. He didn’t drink it.”

That piercing gaze turned on Porthos, harsh, accusing, and Porthos suddenly knew how the constables under Treville’s command must feel whenever they fucked up.

“ _You_ brought it here?”

“No!” The forceful rebuttal came from Athos. “Porthos would never do that.”

“Someone left it for ’im.” The anger swelled again; Porthos could hear it in his own voice. “But he poured it away.” He omitted the part about just how close Athos had come to giving in to temptation. He hadn’t, and that was what mattered.

Treville levelled a narrowed gaze at Athos, assessing. It was likely he had become so accustomed to hearing Athos lie about his drinking that his natural inclination was to disbelieve anything he said.

“A gift?” Treville still sounded sceptical. “From whom?”

“I’ve no idea.” The words were flat, without inflection, as if Athos knew how absurd they sounded. Treville’s grunt, the grim line of his mouth, suggested he was in full agreement, still unconvinced.

Athos squared his shoulders, set his jaw, his surly attitude returning as he resigned himself to whatever fate awaited him. “Do what you will.”

Unable to bear the tension simmering in the air between the two men, Porthos shifted restlessly on the balls of his feet, wishing there was something he could say or do to prove they spoke the truth. Athos’s word should be enough, but he understood why it wasn’t, and while he was silently urging Athos to fight, Porthos couldn’t just stand by and watch as his last chance at reclaiming his life was cruelly ripped away by a misunderstanding. He had no idea what he was going to say, just spoke from the heart.

“Athos has been through hell to get here, and he’s too stubborn to fuck it all up just because some bastard bought him some whisky.” Porthos could hear the conviction in his voice, hoped Treville could hear it too. “And you think I’d sit here an’ let him if he tried?”

Treville turned that shrewd scrutiny on Porthos, and Porthos met it with unwavering persistence. Maybe something in his resolute stare did help sway Treville, for when he looked back to Athos, his expression softened.

“I believe you.” Those three words washed away the tension, leaving relief in their wake. And despite his earlier show of indifference, Athos looked as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “Don’t prove me to be making a mistake.”

Athos looked too stunned to make any kind of response, taken aback by Treville’s show of faith, so Porthos quickly stepped in to reassure Treville.

“He won’t.” Shooting Athos a pointed glance, he prompted, “Right?”

The corner of Athos’s mouth twitched upward into a crooked half-smile. “I won’t,” he echoed, and Porthos admired the confidence in his voice, even if a glimmer of self-doubt still flickered behind his eyes.

“Glad to hear it.” Treville held out his hand for Athos to shake, sealing the deal, then, rather than releasing his grip, he pulled Athos into a brief, one-armed hug. “It’s good to see you happy,” he said softly, close to Athos’s ear but just loud enough for Porthos to catch. It was a sentiment he wholeheartedly agreed with.

Satisfied, Treville finally slipped back into his coat, and Porthos opened the door.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Porthos,” Treville said as he stepped outside, pausing on the doorstep to look back at Athos. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He waited for Athos’s nod before leaving.

When Porthos turned back, it was to the sight of a shell-shocked Athos slumped against the wall, lost.

“What’s wrong?”

It was strange to be granted a glimpse at the vulnerability that resided beneath the impassive, despondent façade he typically wore. It had Porthos instantly worried.

“Treville’s done so much for me, even when I’ve given him no reason to. I don’t want to let him down again.”

“You think you will?”

“You saw his face when he found that bottle. It was obvious what he was thinking.”

“He was worried. He cares about you.” Maybe Athos found that hard to believe, thinking that he had burned that bridge and was no longer deserving of Treville’s concern, his sympathy. “You just need to show ’im it ain’t misplaced, that he’s right to trust you again.” Porthos ducked his head, trying to catch Athos’s eye. “An’ I’ll be here to keep you in line.”

Athos looked up, hearing the promise in those words, and Porthos smiled his intention to stand by that pledge. He couldn’t imagine offering anything less. A little overwhelmed, Athos swallowed thickly, his smile slowly, cautiously reappearing.

“You know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Yeah,” Porthos confirmed, unperturbed. “An’ I’m still ’ere.”

Athos’s smile grew wider, a proper smile, one that caused Porthos’s pulse to quicken, for this time it didn’t disappear back behind a curtain of despair. It was gratitude, faith, hope…

Porthos stepped forward. It was a reflex, instinctive, but he stopped short, catching himself before he could do anything stupid. Athos was staring at him, unblinking, and Porthos opened his mouth to apologise only for the words to evaporate when he met a gaze that was darkened, heated. Watching…waiting.

Athos’s eyes flickered down to Porthos’s mouth, tongue unconsciously darting out to wet his own lips, and the world fell still around them. Porthos’s breath caught in his throat; he didn’t move, couldn’t, but then Athos tilted his chin up, the smallest of gestures but clear in its meaning. An invitation.

It was all Porthos needed.

This time, Athos met him halfway. The first, tentative touch of lips quickly becoming something more—seeking, tasting—and all caution fled. A hand against his jaw, caressing, coaxing, gentle yet desperate, and his own fingers threaded through Athos’s hair as he licked his way into his mouth, tongues clashing, searching.

This was the spark Porthos had seen lurking within Athos, the embers of a fire waiting to burst back into flame, passion, _life_. He felt the full force of it now, in every touch, every gasp, burning in his own veins.

They parted slowly, stealing one more quick kiss before their eyes found each other again, dazed but happy. Athos gave a soft laugh, hot breath mingling with Porthos’s. They were still so close, the adrenaline buzzing beneath his skin.

“Well, that was…” Athos seemed at a loss for words. It didn’t matter. Porthos agreed entirely.

“Yeah. It was.”

Athos laughed again, his hands lingering on Porthos’s chest. Maybe he was confirming Porthos was still there, that he hadn’t fled in guilty panic again, but he didn’t seem to be harbouring any fear that he would. The spark remained alight, that rare smile fixed firmly in place.

Eventually, reluctantly, Athos moved, his smile only faltering when he caught sight of that bloody bottle. Porthos snarled at it, snatched it up, and resisted the urge to throw it against the wall. The bastard thing had done more than enough damage.

“Let’s get rid of this, eh?” Porthos headed for the door in search of Athos’s recycling bin, trying not to think about what might have been had Athos succumbed to his demons, leaving Treville to find him in a drunken stupor. And suddenly it all seemed a little too convenient, the timing of the ‘gift’ coinciding with Treville’s visit. Porthos stopped, hand on the door handle, and turned back.

“Did anyone know your boss was coming here this morning?”

“I’ve no idea. Why?”

“Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think? This thing turns up just before he does?”

Athos fell into a thoughtful silence, the crease of a frown forming on his brow as he considered the implications of what Porthos was suggesting.

“Is Treville the only one who knows the reason you’re on leave?”

“Yes. I think so. He wouldn’t have told anyone, but I do work with a team of detectives.”

“Any of ’em harbouring a grudge against you?”

The beginnings of a denial died on Athos’s lips. “There’s one name that springs to mind.”

“Rochefort?” Porthos guessed.

Athos gave a grim nod. “We both passed our Inspectors’ exam last year, and were both in the running for promotion. When I won, he made no secret of his belief it should have been him.”

“Why would he think that?”

“Apparently, my Oxbridge degree and family name afforded me an unfair advantage, while his superior intellect and skill were overlooked.”

The drawled reply held a tired sarcasm but no pride, which came as less of a surprise to Porthos than the voluntary sharing of the information itself.

“And his bein’ a complete arse had nothin’ at all to do with it, I suppose?”

Athos smiled at that. “Of course not.”

“You think he’d do somethin’ this petty?”

It only took a moment’s consideration. “With me away, he’s right where he wants to be, Acting DI. If I were to not return, it’s almost guaranteed he’d be offered the position permanently.”

“He’d sabotage your recovery for a promotion?” Porthos never made a judgment on someone without ever having met them, but nothing he’d heard about Rochefort had given him any reason to suspect the guy was anything more than a self-serving, scheming rat. And even if Athos was reluctant to admit to one of his colleagues being capable of something so sinister, he couldn’t deny it was a possibility.

“Perhaps.” Porthos watched his expression tighten from wounded to angry, then almost immediately revert to desolate melancholy. The bottle now left forgotten beside the door, Porthos returned to Athos, taking his face gently between his hands.

“Hey,” he breathed, making sure he had Athos’s attention. “Didn’t work, did it?”

Athos considered that, allowing his smile to make a return, if only as a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. “No, it didn’t.”

With that, he wound his arms around Porthos’s neck and pulled him down into a deep, affirming kiss.

* * * *

As soon as he was through the door later that afternoon, after the promised shopping trip, Porthos was confronted by an anxious Aramis, his worried eyes asking the question. Suddenly realising his error in not having contacted Aramis with an update following his one, all too brief text message explaining where he’d disappeared to, Porthos hurried to allay his fears.

“He’s okay.” Aramis instantly relaxed, fears dispersed by the relief in Porthos’s voice. “He had a rough night, but we got through it.”

He still felt some residual guilt, but it was pride that swelled in his chest, leaving him lighter now despite a night filled with worry and little sleep.

Pride, and quiet elation at the memory of Athos’s kiss.

“He didn’t have a drink?” Aramis wanted to be certain, just as invested in Athos’s recovery as Porthos.

“No. He’s stronger than he gives ’imself credit for.”

Maybe Porthos deserved to share a little of that credit, but it had been Athos’s willpower that had stopped him opening the bottle and taking a drink, his stubborn determination that had made him pick up the phone.

Porthos hung up his jacket, pulled his wallet, phone, and keys out of his pockets to toss them on the table, pausing when his fingers brushed something small and metallic, forgotten until now.

He had tucked Athos’s key safely into his pocket last night, meaning to return it after making his decision to stay. But with everything that had happened since, it had completely slipped his mind. He slid it now inside his wallet so he would have it with him next time he saw Athos.

Aramis was watching him, one eyebrow raised, and it was clear he had not only guessed the origin of the key, but also leapt to the most obvious conclusion as to why Porthos should have it in his possession.

Porthos rolled his eyes. “It ain’t what you think.”

“He gave you a key,” Aramis stated, as if it were incontrovertible proof his assumption was correct.

“Yeah, but just so I could lock up last night when I left.”

“But you didn’t leave.” More evidence, and this time Porthos had no counter argument.

“No. Slept on the sofa, though.”

Aramis digested that information, and might have believed it had all been purely platonic had he not known Porthos so well.

“ _Something_ happened.”

Porthos felt the smile tugging at his lips, unable to hide his happiness as the memory returned with renewed force. “Might’ve, yeah,” he admitted, quickly adding, “It was only a kiss, mind,” before Aramis’s imagination had chance to kick into overdrive.

“And I’m assuming you didn’t run away this time?”

Porthos cringed at the reminder. “Nothin’ to run from.”

“Good.” Aramis, smiling, gave a nod of approval. “You two are good for each other.”

Aramis might not always get his own relationships right, but he was rarely wrong when it came to other people. Porthos would gladly prove his intuition correct; he just had to avoid any more mistakes.

“I don’t wanna balls it up again.”

“You won’t.” Aramis sounded certain, and his smile held confidence. “Have faith.”

Porthos was beginning to believe that, true to form, Aramis might just be right.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to [ComeHitherAshes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeHitherAshes) for the invaluable suggestions and valiant attempt to help fix this chapter, and to [evilmaniclaugh](http://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh) for the nagging.

“Fuck me.”

There was nothing wrong with a scruffy, unkempt Athos as far as Porthos was concerned, but there was without doubt something to be said for the smart, groomed Athos that opened the door to him.

Athos gave a dismissive grunt, but there was colour rising in his cheeks as he stepped back to allow Porthos entry.

“What are you doing here?” He sounded merely surprised, and not at all put out by Porthos’s early arrival on his doorstep.

“Came to wish you luck.” Porthos had been determined to catch Athos before he left for his meeting with Treville, to offer his support. “Not that you need it.”

“I’ll gladly accept all the help I can get.”

If Athos was aiming for levity, he fell a little wide of the mark.

Frowning, Porthos followed Athos into the kitchen and accepted the offer of a coffee, recognising it for the distraction technique it was. As he pulled out a chair, Porthos couldn’t help but notice the contents of the kitchen table. The cold remains of a mug of coffee and a saucer of cigarette butts. It wasn’t an encouraging sign.

“That your breakfast?”

Realising what Porthos was referring to, and perhaps kicking himself for having left the evidence in plain sight, Athos cringed.

“I couldn’t face eating anything.” Embarrassed, he busied himself making Porthos’s drink, afraid of seeing his disappointment. “Nervous, I suppose.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” Porthos said, full of encouragement and very glad he had decided to visit. “You’ll ace it.”

“At least I haven’t yet resorted to seeking some Dutch courage.”

It was impossible to tell if Athos was joking. If he was, it wasn’t very funny. Athos caught his expression as he brought Porthos his coffee.

“Sorry.” He sat down heavily and dropped his head into his hand. That whisky might not have had the intended effect, but it had come bloody close, and was clearly still playing on Athos’s mind now. Whether it had been masterminded by Rochefort or not, it had been timed to devastating perfection.

“Do you want a drink?” Porthos asked the question gently, understanding rather than accusing.

The hesitation before Athos spoke was telling. “I don’t _want_ one, no.”

Porthos understood the importance of that distinction between _want_ and _need_. The niggling need would always be there, lurking beneath the surface, ready to rear its head at any opportunity, but Athos could choose not to let it rule him, fight to conquer it. Now that his goal was within reach, it was only natural to be anxious that nothing should thwart him now.

To be nervous was expected, but any true doubts could be counterproductive to his recovery.

“If you don’t think you’re up to this, tell Treville. He won’t think any less of you for needing more time.”

“No.” Athos shook his head decisively. “I’m ready. I need to do this.” Fiddling with the cuff of his shirtsleeve, Athos tried to give Porthos an assured smile. It didn’t quite work and he sighed instead, deciding Porthos deserved more of an explanation. “I always knew this wasn’t going to be easy, but the past couple of days have made me realise just how difficult it all really is.” The wan smile turned apologetic. “I don’t mean to be defeatist.”

It slowly dawned on Porthos why all these doubts had suddenly resurfaced, why now. It wasn’t only the battle to stay sober that Athos was preparing to fight, but the struggle to regain the trust he had lost. He had finally confronted his own demons, only to now have to face the people he had let down, their inevitable judgement. Porthos grasped his hand, ceasing its fidgeting.

“It’ll get easier.”

What might have sounded like an empty platitude carried the weight of experience, and Athos accepted his word with a small nod, turned his hand over and laced his fingers with Porthos’s. “Thank you for being here this morning.”

There was a quiet awe in his voice, as if he couldn’t quite believe someone had taken the time to think of him. Truth was, Porthos had thought of little else. He gave Athos’s hand a squeeze.

“Where else would I be?”

The sound of a car pulling up outside interrupted the moment, and Athos rose to his feet, reluctantly releasing Porthos’s hand.

“That’s the taxi. I don’t want to make a bad impression by arriving late.” That dry humour was creeping back.

Porthos followed Athos to the door to see him off, afraid he was being too much of a mother hen but wanting to provide whatever support he could. Athos paused at the door and turned back to Porthos.

“Will you…”

“I’ll be right here when you’re done.”

Relief and gratitude swept across Athos’s features, his emotion for once unconcealed. Porthos slid a hand around the back of his neck, fingers tangling into his hair, and pulled him into a kiss, brief but hard, fortifying.

“Go get ’em.”

* * * *

Athos had been gone for more than two hours when Porthos finally heard the front door open. He stopped his restless pacing between lounge and kitchen and met Athos in the hall, anxious to find out if the delay heralded good or bad news. “Well?”

Athos’s expression remained as maddeningly unreadable as ever, until he met Porthos’s anxious gaze. The answer was written in his eyes, even before he spoke.

“I can return to work next week.”

“Brilliant!” Porthos engulfed Athos in a hug. “I never doubted you could do it.”

Athos, his face buried in Porthos’s shoulder, gave a short laugh. “That makes one of us.”

“Hey,” Porthos admonished, pulling back just far enough to look Athos in the eye.

“I would still be wallowing in a pit of alcohol and self-loathing if not for you and Aramis.”

“I don’t believe that.” It would have been harder, perhaps, but he’d have dragged himself out somehow. Now, Porthos wondered if he could be doing more to help Athos overcome the bouts of depression that were hindering his recovery. “Stop thinkin’ the worst of yourself.”

It was a gentle command but it clearly struck home. Athos lowered his gaze, chastened. “I suppose what I am trying to say is, thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” Porthos brushed his thumb across Athos’s cheek in a tender caress, drawing him back from whatever shadows were trying to claim him. “Now, are you gonna let me congratulate you properly?”

An eyebrow quirked upward, a combination of confusion and curiosity. Porthos grinned in response, then pulled Athos into a kiss.

It was soft at first, the barest brush of lips, until Athos’s tongue darted out, a playfully teasing flicker against Porthos’s lower lip. Porthos chased it with his own and was soon plundering Athos’s mouth, fingers twisted in his hair, Athos’s hands clutching at his biceps, both holding on as they plunged deeper.

Porthos let his hands roam, taking eager advantage of this chance to explore freely. At Athos’s waist he paused, pulling his shirt free and slipping beneath, fingers finding bare flesh, warm and smooth and inviting. He felt Athos’s breath hitch, a slight shiver as he ran his hand up to curl around his ribs and trail back down the ridge of his spine, his own blood heating, a growl torn from him when Athos caught his lip between his teeth.

Once released, Porthos retaliated, nipping his way along Athos’s jaw, the scratch of his stubble a pleasant burn. Athos lifted his chin, and Porthos mouthed his way down his exposed throat, grazing teeth against skin and pressing his tongue to Athos’s pulse point, his own heart hammering, heat pooling in his stomach. His palm flat against the small of Athos’s back, Porthos pulled him close as he arched forward, already half hard and desperate for friction. Athos tensed, his fingers tightening their hold, almost bruising, holding himself still as Porthos moulded their bodies together, fingertips finding their way beneath Athos’s waistband.

Athos shuddered, exhaled a strangled groan that vibrated against Porthos’s lips and jolted along every nerve. For a brief moment he pressed forward into Porthos’s touch, then, in a sudden surge of movement, tore himself from Porthos’s embrace, stumbled back a few steps, chest heaving and trembling hands balled into fists at his sides. Porthos caught a quick glimpse of flushed cheeks and dark, wild eyes before they were obscured by a curtain of hair as Athos ducked away.

“I—I’m sorry. I…” The mumbled words petered out into a snarl of frustration directed entirely at himself. He wouldn’t meet Porthos’s gaze, fighting an internal storm Porthos feared he had unwittingly stirred up.

Fumbling for something to say, something that might fix this new fuck-up, Porthos stared helplessly after Athos as he muttered another apology before disappearing into the living room, his brain trying to process this sudden about-turn, his body still thrumming with the buzz of waning arousal.

He waited a few minutes, giving them both time to compose themselves, guilt edging its way back into his consciousness. He’d thought they had sorted themselves out, confirmed they felt the same way. True, they hadn’t exactly spoken about it, and maybe that had been their mistake.

Athos was hunched at one end of the sofa, a sight so painfully familiar it made Porthos’s chest tighten. Feeling uncomfortably like he was negotiating a minefield but with no intention of shying away, Porthos sat down beside him. Thankfully, Athos didn’t seem to mind his presence, and even glanced up in acknowledgment, making the effort not to hide.

He looked so devastated Porthos wanted to pull him into a hug, but he held back, giving Athos the space he needed while wondering just how badly he’d fucked up this time.

“Talk to me?” It was a gentle prompt, an offer not an order.

“I’m sorry.”

Another misplaced apology wasn’t what Porthos had been looking for, but it was a start, Athos wasn’t shutting himself off. “No, it’s my fault,” Porthos insisted. “I’m supposed to be supportin’ you, and instead I keep throwing meself at you. I’m not really helpin’, am I?”

“You are,” Athos said quickly. “I’m the one that keeps sending you mixed signals.”

Porthos shook his head. He was the one who had started this, and could blame nobody but himself for making Athos’s life more complicated when he was supposed to be doing the precise opposite.

Seeing that Porthos remained unconvinced, that he was again laden with that same guilt that had made him take to his heels once before, Athos sighed. Taking the weight of the world upon his own shoulders yet again. “I’m already harbouring enough guilt to last a lifetime, don’t you start too.” He took a breath, looked straight at Porthos. “I want this, Porthos. I want _you_.”

It was such an open, unabashed confession from someone usually so guarded that Porthos’s heart stuttered, the heat rapidly returning to his veins. It took a good deal of effort to ignore it. “An’ I don’t wanna make this harder for you. If you’d rather—”

“No.” Athos looked surprised by the force behind his answer. “I…” He scrubbed a hand through his hair and stared down into his lap, conflicted. The decision was his, and Porthos awaited it with a heavy heart. If Athos would rather he back off, he would, unquestioningly, however much it would pain him to do so.

A minute passed agonisingly slowly, Porthos steeling himself for the inevitable. Now he knew his feelings weren’t entirely one-sided it would be all the more difficult to give Athos the space he needed, but some things took precedence over his own desires.

Athos drew in a deep breath and finally looked up. The gaze that found Porthos’s was both determined and nervous, but steady with resolve.

“I can ask Aramis to find me another sponsor, but I can’t promise I’ll be able to get it up.”

“Oh.” _Shit_. What was it about Athos that had made him lose what little shred of sense he had previously possessed? Of course there was a chance that prolonged heavy drinking would have had some detrimental effects on Athos’s health, and if Porthos had engaged his brain for five seconds he might have considered that. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think.”

Athos smiled, grim and humourless. “It’s just another way in which I’ve managed to screw up my life.”

Shaking his head, Porthos laid a hand on Athos’s knee, providing him with something physical with which to ground himself, to cling to, to stop him falling headlong into the darkness once again.

“Have you spoken to the doctor?”

Athos looked alarmed at the very idea.

“You should, they might be able to help. Sitting here worrying will only make it worse.”

“You’re right, of course,” Athos acknowledged, although he didn’t look particularly happy at the prospect of sharing his failings with yet another stranger, professional or not. Porthos gave his knee a squeeze, pledging his support in whatever Athos chose to do.

“Let’s get some proper food into you, eh?” A firm believer in the restorative powers of a good meal, Porthos was certain Athos would feel at least a little better once he’d had something substantial to eat. Worrying on an empty stomach never did anyone any good.

Athos nodded, eyes bright with bewildered gratitude as he stared at the hand resting on his knee.

“What on earth do you see in me?”

Porthos could have made a list, but he knew Athos wouldn’t believe half of it. Given time, Porthos would make him see, but in the meantime he would let actions speak for him. Gathering Athos into his arms, he pressed a kiss to his temple, another to the tip of his nose, and finally one more to his lips, persisting until he felt Athos relax, respond. It was gentle, undemanding, and full of unspoken promises on both sides.

When they parted, Athos didn’t move away as Porthos expected. Instead, he settled against Porthos’s side, an arm wrapped around his waist and head on his shoulder. Despite everything, Athos was still comfortable allowing his vulnerability to show, and hadn’t yet been put off by Porthos’s heavy-handed attempt at courting him.

“I’ve made a right cock up of all this, haven’t I?”

Athos raised his head and stared at him, and it was only when he gave a short snort of laughter that Porthos realised his unfortunate choice of words.

“An’ I might need some help gettin’ my foot out of my mouth.”

Athos dismissed his worries with a small shake of his head. “I’ve not made it easy for you, have I? You deserve a medal for putting up with me.”

“I’d settle for a kiss.”

Porthos had only half a second to appreciate the smile that spread across Athos’s face before he was pinned back against the sofa, fingers in his hair and lips pressed hard to his own. When Athos’s tongue probed at his mouth, requesting entry, Porthos granted it instantly, sucking, not holding back his rumble of approval at the answering tug to his hair.

It was over too soon, but Porthos let Athos pull back before things could get any more heated. He didn’t go far, sank back down against Porthos’s side and met his heavy gaze, eyes dark and a triumphant smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. A happy warmth settling in his chest, Porthos slid an arm around Athos’s waist and tugged him close.

The kiss had been incredible, but Athos’s smile was reward enough.


	9. Chapter 9

With only a week before Athos’s long awaited—and hard fought for—return to work, it became something of a mission to get the Bonnie up and running. Athos seemed to find a measure of peace in both the work and the company, and it was a joy to witness this more carefree side of him.

When Wednesday evening rolled around, they headed to group together, Athos riding pillion on the Ducati. It was the first time Porthos had seen him completely calm at the prospect of facing the roomful of people, free of his lamb-to-the-slaughter jitteriness.

For those first few weeks after he’d joined them, Athos hadn’t given a damn what the other members thought of him, but now he looked both surprised and a little overwhelmed by the words of congratulations and encouragement his news received.

Athos scanned the circle, meeting the gaze of everyone present. When he spoke it was with warmth and candour, so far removed from the belligerence they had all first encountered. “I owe you all my profound gratitude, for your support and for putting up with me. I know I’ve been…difficult.” He gave a wry smile, but when his eyes met Porthos’s, stopping to hold his gaze, the sincerity returned. “I would never have made it this far if not for you.”

Unable to restrain his smile, Porthos beamed at him, happy to have provided a little help along the way. He couldn’t detract from Athos’s own achievements, however, the strength he’d shown after believing all fight had deserted him.

He wasn’t the only one who thought so.

“Most of the credit belongs to you,” Aramis said, pride evident in both his voice and his expression. Witnessing the successes of those he guided never failed to lift him; it was why he had started the group, to help as many people as possible bring themselves back from the brink. “Don’t forget that.”

Athos inclined his head, acknowledging the truth in Aramis’s words, but looked immensely relieved when the focus turned from him. Yet, despite his preference for staying out of the spotlight, he remained engaged with the group, and it was obvious he had firmly placed his doubts behind him and was focused instead on the future.

* * * *

A team effort had the hall tidied in record time. After finishing up in the kitchen, Porthos waited outside while Aramis took the opportunity to speak privately with Athos. He knew there was no reason to worry, that Aramis would help cement Athos’s resolution to take this next step, but he couldn’t help but feel anxious on Athos’s behalf. He knew just how much weight Athos had taken upon his own shoulders, and how easily he allowed it to get the better of him. It was possible Treville had been in touch with Aramis, seeking his opinion, and Aramis would want to make sure his assessment was correct, that he wasn’t inadvertently helping set Athos up for another fall.

When Athos emerged a few minutes later and made straight for Porthos he didn’t look to be carrying any burdens, old or new.

“Okay?” Porthos wanted to be certain.

“Yes.” Athos’s smile was reassuring in itself. “Aramis just wanted to make sure I felt able to cope.”

“With work or with me?” Porthos’s quip provoked a snort, but there was a glint of amusement in Athos’s eyes. Porthos flashed him a grin before growing serious again. “And do you?”

“Yes.” He sounded positive, all doubts vanquished. “And if I do find myself struggling, I have you.”

“Yeah, you do.” Porthos drew Athos to him, into a kiss that was happily returned, heedless of their location. Anyone would be forgiven for believing Athos reserved, undemonstrative, and Porthos himself would have made that same mistake a few weeks ago. The truth, however, was very different, only hidden behind that aloof exterior he used as a shield. Every time Porthos was afforded a glimpse at the fire beyond, he felt a buzz of happiness, and now, as Athos locked his arms around his waist, he knew he was smiling like an idiot. He tipped his head back to catch Athos’s eye, recognizing that same emotion reflected back at him. “Now let’s go get some dinner, eh?”

Athos rolled his eyes but he was smiling too. “Do you ever think of anything but your stomach?”

Porthos smirked and hauled Athos closer. “Sometimes, yeah.”

* * * *

As they ordered the cheesecake to share, it occurred to Porthos that this was their first real date. Discounting poorly planned picnics and _FIFA_ battles, of course. There had been a brief moment of panic as their waiter offered them the wine menu, but Athos had calmly asked for a sparkling water and Porthos silently chastised himself for fearing the worst.

In fact, Athos looked relaxed, happy as they chatted over their meals, letting Porthos eat most of the cheesecake. Perhaps the cosy, almost homely atmosphere of the restaurant had helped a little. It was Porthos’s favourite place to eat out, and his first choice of venue when Athos had agreed to his suggestion of dinner. Completely absorbed in each other, they barely even noticed their fellow diners and Athos’s appetite had recovered to the extent that he readily concurred with Porthos’s opinion on the food, and even suggested they make a return visit sometime soon, a proposal Porthos was fully on board with.

Although, if he were being completely honest with himself, it was the company Porthos was most enjoying, and he didn’t much care where they were as long as Athos was happy too.

Right now, he had no doubt that was the case.

When it came time to settle the bill, Porthos remembered the key still tucked safely inside his wallet and immediately felt stupid for having forgotten about it again.

“Forgot I still had this. Here.”

Athos looked at the proffered key but made no attempt to take it. Instead, after a moment’s consideration, his gaze returned to Porthos.

“Keep it.”

Porthos hesitated, wondering if Athos feared he might at some point in the future need to call upon Porthos in another moment of distress, but as he slid the key onto his keyring to nestle amongst his own he realised it was symbolic of something far more significant.

Athos watched, and in the low light Porthos caught the trace of a bashful smile and knew Athos was thinking the same thing, at peace with the implications.

* * * *

Despite being stuffed full of good food, Porthos felt strangely empty when he pulled up outside Athos’s house, and perhaps he wasn’t alone in his reluctance to part company, for Athos pulled off his helmet but made no move to get off the bike. Flipping up his visor, Porthos twisted in his seat to look over his shoulder and found Athos with his lip caught between his teeth and a decision settling behind his eyes.

“Come inside.”

It was late, late enough that there could be only one possible interpretation of that offer, and Porthos hesitated just long enough to ensure Athos really was comfortable inviting him in for the night before he was off the bike and following Athos inside, the previously empty space inside him now filled with a fluttering he was surely too old to be suffering.

Athos made tea while Porthos found a daft panel show on the telly, and they sat pressed close on the sofa, savouring the tea and laughing at the contestants’ ridiculous remarks. It probably wasn’t the kind of thing Athos typically spent his evenings watching, but his droll observations had Porthos in stitches.

When their mugs were drained and the credits rolling, Athos sat forward to place his empty mug on the coffee table and picked up the remote to switch the television off. Then he stood, turned to Porthos, and extended his hand in wordless invitation.

There was no hesitation this time. Porthos allowed Athos to pull him to his feet and lead him through the house to the bedroom.

Strangely, it wasn’t at all awkward, not even the mutual, unspoken decision to leave boxers and t-shirts on. There was none of the typical self-consciousness, the pressure to perform, and Porthos was free to enjoy the simple pleasure of settling down beside somebody he adored in the fading light of the day, sharing that intimacy.

Athos stretched out alongside Porthos and propped himself up on an elbow, smiling down at Porthos before dipping for a kiss. Porthos hummed his pleasure, hooking an arm around Athos’s shoulders to hold him in place as they pressed deeper. Athos’s hand was warm on his chest, fingers splayed, dragging the cotton of his t-shirt roughly over a nipple then slipping over his shoulder to curl around the back of his neck as their kiss became a clash of teeth and tongues, a desperate desire to devour each other’s taste.

Then Athos’s lips stuttered, his shoulders tensing as his hand slid back down to lie flat against a pectoral, and this time he used it as leverage to push himself back up, away, regret written across his face.

“I’m sorry I can’t…”

Craning his neck, Porthos dashed away his disappointment with another kiss, reaching up to cup his stubbled jaw, thumb smoothing across the softer skin of his cheek. “Doesn’t matter,” he assured him, holding his gaze until he was sure Athos could see the truth there, before tugging him back down.

Athos settled his head on Porthos’s shoulder, hand resting lightly on his stomach. Porthos could tell he was still thinking, still trying to convince himself Porthos could be satisfied with just this. When he spoke his voice was low, as if he feared he might startle Porthos into coming to his senses.

“This is okay?”

Porthos’s response was immediate. “Yeah.” He found Athos’s hand and clutched it tight against his chest, turned his head to press a kiss into the shaggy mop of hair. “This is perfect.”

He meant every word. And, as Athos relaxed into him, Porthos dared to believe that he might just feel the same.

* * * *

Porthos woke slowly, limbs pleasantly heavy, and as dream faded and memory resurfaced it brought with it a warm, profound sense of contentment.

His happiness was dented a little when he realised he was alone in the room, but before he had chance to worry about what Athos’s absence could mean he heard the sounds of someone moving about elsewhere in the house and, moments later, the scent of cooking reached him.

Intrigued, he rolled out of bed, found his jeans and, after a quick pit stop in the bathroom, went in search of Athos.

He found him in the kitchen, standing vigil over a collection of pans on the stove. The simple domesticity of the scene had Porthos smiling to himself, encouraged by the sight of Athos absorbed in such an everyday task. It was the kind of necessity that often fell by the wayside in favour of the addict’s more important concerns. The next drink, the next fix.

Either he made a sound or Athos sensed his presence, for he turned to greet him with a soft smile. “Good morning.”

“Wondered where you’d got to.” Porthos padded across the kitchen to join him. “What’s all this?”

“I owe you a breakfast.”

Porthos stepped up behind Athos, peered over his shoulder to see the source of the mouth-watering smells. Sausages and rashers of bacon sizzled alongside mushrooms and tomatoes, and there were slices of bread and eggs ready to fry in another pan.

His stomach rumbled in anticipation. “You beauty.”

But it wasn’t just hunger that had stirred him. Athos had planned this, must have gone shopping with Porthos in mind, and while the food looked, and smelled, delicious, it was the knowledge that Athos was not only thinking about the future, but a future with Porthos that really touched Porthos. Besides Aramis, there had been very few people who had ever given Porthos a second thought, and that Athos, a man so troubled by his own demons, had willingly welcomed Porthos into his life was almost too incredible to believe.

With no idea how to even begin expressing his feelings, Porthos opted for the tried and tested physical approach, wrapping his arms around Athos’s waist and nuzzling a kiss into his neck, hoping to convey even a little of the sentiment welling in his chest.

It seemed Athos understood. Leaning back into Porthos, he lifted his chin, offering more. Porthos mouthed his way up the exposed column of Athos’s throat, stopping at the sensitive spot of skin just beneath Athos’s ear. He felt rather than heard Athos’s sigh, his soft laugh.

Porthos would have been happy to spend the rest of the day right there, wrapped around Athos. Their breakfast, however, had other ideas.

A spitting hiss from the grill pan reclaimed Athos’s attention and he reluctantly straightened to tend to the food.

“Stop distracting me,” he said without heat, a smile in his voice. “Or you’ll be eating burnt sausages.”

“Nothin’ worse than a burnt sausage.” Porthos peeled himself away from Athos, but couldn’t resist one more quick kiss to the upturned corner of his mouth before doing as instructed and patiently taking a seat at the table, awaiting both the food and the company.

* * * *

Time passed far too quickly, and Porthos soon identified the one drawback to Athos’s fast-approaching return. He was going to miss spending lazy days together, free from worries and settling into their budding relationship.

But that was a small price to pay. He would much rather see Athos take that next step on the road to recovery, and would just make the most of monopolising his time and companionship while he could. He might have felt selfish were it not for how happy Athos was to have him around, smiling easily and far more relaxed than Porthos had yet seen him.

It wasn’t long before Porthos discovered one of his new favourite things was waking up beside Athos. Perhaps not surprisingly, Athos was an early riser, but on the mornings Porthos awoke first he would relish those few minutes of quiet peace, the gentle rise and fall of Athos’s chest, the soft huff of his breath, the warmth of his body.

It was perfect. Right up until Sunday morning, when Porthos went and fucked it up.

He woke to the first rays of the early morning sun, spooned comfortably around Athos, Athos’s sleep-mussed hair tickling his nose and back tucked tight to Porthos’s chest, locked in place by the arm Porthos had wrapped around his waist, and…shit.

Porthos was hard, his morning wood pressed snugly against Athos’s arse.

Silently cursing his traitorous body, Porthos carefully edged his hips backwards, but even that slight movement was enough to cause Athos to stir, to reflexively chase the warmth and touch of Porthos’s body. It was when he froze that Porthos knew he was awake, and that he hadn’t failed to notice Porthos’s predicament.

“Sorry.” Porthos rolled onto his back, embarrassed not by his body’s natural reaction but rather its unfortunate timing and placement. Athos followed him, turning under the covers to face Porthos, contemplating him with sleepy eyes for a few seconds before leaning in and kissing him.

Surprised, it took Porthos a few seconds to react, but he was soon kissing Athos back with abandon, apparently forgiven, the last tendrils of sleep slipping away beneath Athos’s touch. He was unable to hold back his groan when Athos slid a hand down to rest over the swell of his cock.

“Athos…” It was a plea, spoken against Athos’s lips as he struggled not to push up into that warm palm, his head insisting it wasn’t fair that he should experience this pleasure alone. Athos’s only response was to wrap his fingers tighter, squeezing gently but with purpose, and Porthos’s body almost won the battle.

It was the shock of flesh meeting flesh that jolted Porthos back to his senses, Athos’s hand slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers to curl around him unimpeded.

“ _Athos_.” This time it came out as a gasp, his voice hoarse, as he desperately grasped Athos’s wrist, forestalling his exploration. “Don’t.”

As soon as the word left his lips he wished he could take it back.

Athos’s face instantly shuttered, his eyes betraying a flash of hurt before turning cold, and Porthos’s stomach lurched with dismay as Athos yanked his arm free.

“Fine,” he snarled as he twisted away, all but throwing himself out of the bed. “You don’t want me, that’s fine. I understand.” He kept his gaze averted, shoving his arms into the sleeves of his dressing gown. Porthos opened his mouth to explain but Athos was already speaking again, voice tight with wounded anger. “But don’t feel you have to stick around out of some warped sense of duty. I don’t need your pity, Porthos.”

Remorse was a sharp ache in his heart. “Athos, that’s not—”

It was too late. The bedroom door slammed shut, cutting short Porthos’s desperate entreaty, and he slumped back onto the pillow, wondering how in the hell he’d managed to get it so disastrously wrong yet again.


	10. Chapter 10

He found Athos in the workshed, huddled in his too-thin dressing gown, bare feet damp from the morning dew, and his heart gave a leap.

There had been a flash of anger, hot and bright in the emptiness of the bedroom, at Athos’s accusation, the implication that Porthos didn’t truly care. But it had fizzled out as swiftly as it had ignited, leaving a hollow space in his chest that had been quickly filled by remorse.

Porthos knew he was to blame, that he’d made his demurral of Athos’s advances seem like a rejection, and now he was afraid this would be the misunderstanding that sent Athos right back to where he had begun.

He couldn’t let that happen.

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

Athos started. He’d been so lost in his own sorrow he hadn’t even heard Porthos approach. Now, he looked stunned that Porthos should be there at all. “No,” he said quickly. “Of course not.” He looked just as stricken by regret as Porthos felt. “I’m sorry.”

Relief chased away the worst of Porthos’s apprehension. “Good. Because I do want you, Athos. You know that, right?”

“I can’t fathom why, but yes.” More of that bleak self-deprecation that made Porthos’s heart ache. “And, Christ, I want you too. I wanted to—” He broke off, his gaze returning to the scuffed floor as he fell victim once again to his perceived shortcomings. “You deserve so much more than I have to offer.”

 _No_. Porthos couldn’t hold himself back any longer. He hunkered down on the cold concrete, dipping his head so he could meet Athos’s eyes. “I told you, that doesn’t matter. Y’know, sex, all that. All I want is you, and for you to be happy.”

“I am.” He sounded anything but. With a flash of insight, Porthos realised it was the contentment of the past few days that was what likely lay behind this latest wave of melancholy. To be happy was to risk having it all torn away again. Porthos would just have to convince him that wasn’t going to happen, not if he had anything to do with it.

But if he was going to stand any chance of success, he would need to start by reaffirming the foundations they had already laid. He could almost hear Aramis’s voice in his head: _be honest and open_.

He’d once asked Athos to talk to him; it was only fair he do the same.

Porthos settled onto the ground beside Athos, close enough that their shoulders would brush if either of them moved. “I’m sorry if it seemed like I was pushing you away. I wasn’t. I just hated that I couldn’t reciprocate.”

Athos gave a nod of understanding, rational thought having returned now he’d had time to calm. “I overreacted, didn’t I?”

Perhaps he had, but Porthos could hardly blame him. Athos had spent so long bowed under the weight of despair and self-loathing he hadn’t quite gotten out of the habit of automatically thinking the worst. “Everybody’s entitled to a bad day.”

“Only I tend to have more of them than the average person, and you’re the one has to bear the brunt.”

“Nowhere I’d rather be.” It was a gruff statement, full of sincerity, and Porthos grasped Athos’s hand in his own—physical affirmation to reinforce his words.

Athos looked at their joined hands, caught somewhere between awed disbelief and fragile hope. “How have I not yet chased you away?”

“Stubborn, ain’t I?”

Athos raised a small smile at that. “And I consider myself incredibly fortunate that you’re such a mule.”

“Oi!” Porthos laughed, tugging Athos to him so he could wrap an arm around his shoulders, relieved when Athos leant into the embrace, all blunders once again forgiven and forgotten.

They sat there for a while, watched over by the Bonnie in all her newly restored splendour, until Athos began to shiver. Porthos gave him a gentle nudge.

“C’mon, it’s cold down here.” They rose together, Porthos keeping Athos close, not quite ready to let him go despite the chill in the air calling for their return to the house. He pressed a soft kiss to his lips, smiling when Athos chased him for another. Reluctantly, they parted, and Porthos ushered Athos back indoors.

“Go and get dressed. I’ve got an idea.”

* * * *

Less than half an hour later, Porthos was racing along the tarmac, the roar of the Ducati’s engine joined by the low, rumbling growl of the Bonnie as Athos followed him along the now familiar route.

They stopped in the clearing, parking the bikes amidst the trees, and Athos pulled off his helmet to reveal probably the biggest smile Porthos had ever seen on his face.

“So? How was that?”

Porthos didn’t really require an answer; Athos’s expression said it all. But he waited expectantly, smiling at the sight of Athos’s flushed cheeks and dishevelled hair.

“Incredible,” Athos breathed as he looked from the Bonnie back to Porthos, eyes bright. “I can’t believe I left it so long.”

Porthos grabbed him by the hand and led him up the little hill, the view today washed with a golden yellow glow. “Yeah, it was pretty good,” he agreed, pretending to think it over, “but I do have one complaint.”

His tone was lighthearted enough that Athos’s questioning look was one of curiosity rather than concern.

“Missed havin’ your arms around me.”

Athos laughed, a soft chuckle really, but it was more than Porthos had ever thought he’d hear. “Then I shall have to remedy that.”

Athos enfolded Porthos in a hug, drawing him close and holding him tight. He may have been joking, but Porthos couldn’t deny it felt good— _right_ —to share this simple intimacy knowing Athos wanted it just as keenly as he did.

“I would never have touched that bike again if not for you,” Athos said softly, voice muffled against the crook of Porthos’s neck. He raised his head to look Porthos in the eye as he added, “Thank you hardly seems sufficient,” and Porthos knew he was no longer talking solely about the bike.

But Porthos needed no thanks. He had promised to give Athos the help and encouragement he required, and had done his best to uphold that vow despite a few missteps while navigating their evolving relationship. Besides, while Porthos may have had a hand in reigniting Athos’s passion, giving him a distraction, a reason to get out of bed and a focus beyond the bottle, it was Athos himself who had found the will to take that step, to allow himself to be drawn out of the shadows of his despair.

He didn’t need to put any of that into words, however. His kiss said it all.

* * * *

The rest of the day passed in just as lazy a fashion, and as evening drew in they opted to pick up some takeaway rather than worry about cooking. They ate from the containers, sat side by side on Athos’s sofa, and after eating their fill they gravitated toward each other, Athos settling against Porthos and Porthos happily taking on this new role as human pillow.

Porthos caught himself idly teasing his fingers through Athos’s hair. Athos, it seemed, had no complaints, and before long Porthos realised he had dozed off. Content and comfortable, Porthos was loath to disturb him, but thought Athos would benefit from a proper rest the night before his return to working life.

A gentle nudged roused Athos and he blinked up at Porthos with a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”

“Nah.” Porthos waved off his apology. “Didn’t wanna wake you, but I doubt you wanna show up tomorrow with a crick in your neck.”

Athos reluctantly pushed himself upright. “You’re probably right.” He stood and gathered up their leftovers, carrying them through to the kitchen.

While he was gone, Porthos found himself with a dilemma on his hands. Should he offer to sleep on the sofa, or would Athos prefer that he head off home? What would he be most comfortable with? While he was still deliberating over what to do, Athos reappeared in the doorway.

“Are you coming?”

“Oh. I, uh…” That was the one option Porthos hadn’t thought would be on the cards. “I thought maybe I should—”

“You don’t want to.” Athos’s face fell, and he visibly steeled himself for what he assumed would be further rejection.

“Of course I do,” Porthos assured him quickly, truthfully. “I just didn’t want it to be awkward.”

“It will only be awkward if we make it awkward.”

Athos’s logic was faultless. Their past disasters were all the evidence Porthos needed that thinking too much about these things and failing to communicate inevitably led to misunderstandings, and he desperately wanted to avoid any more of those.

With firm resolve, Athos hauled Porthos up from the sofa and into a kiss that was both heated and languorous. “Come to bed, Porthos.”

“How c’n I refuse an offer like that?”


	11. Chapter 11

“I thought _I_ was supposed to be the nervous one.”

Porthos hadn’t intended to be quite so obvious with his fretting, but he wasn’t embarrassed that Athos could see his concern. He knew what a big step this was, how much the return to work meant to Athos, and he wanted Athos to succeed. He was almost as invested in it as the man himself.

“Thought I would cover the nerves so you can focus on being brilliant.”

“Thank you.” Solemn, sincere. Then his mouth twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I’d settle for just making it through the day.”

Porthos frowned at that, his concern instantly doubling. He had thought he’d gotten better at interpreting the true feelings behind that damned inscrutable mask, and maybe it was just his own jitteriness, but at that moment he couldn’t tell how serious Athos was. Whether he was harbouring real doubts or if it was simply his nerves manifesting as misjudged humour.

“You good?”

“I don’t need a drink, if that’s what you’re asking.” Relief, but it only lasted a moment. “Not yet anyway.”

A knot of dread began to coil in Porthos’s stomach, its icy tendrils reaching up to grasp his heart. “I…don’t know if that’s supposed to be a joke.”

“Sorry.” Athos looked instantly contrite, regretting his flippant words when he saw the distress in Porthos’s eyes. “It’s difficult to shake my natural pessimism.”

Porthos took Athos’s face gently in his hands, locking gazes and projecting every ounce of faith he possessed. “If you need me, just call, yeah?”

“Of course.” His smile this time was genuine. Covering one of Porthos’s hands with his own, he turned his head and pressed a kiss to its palm. “Whatever did I do to deserve you?”

Rather than attempting to convince Athos of his worth with words, Porthos pulled him into a deep kiss that had Athos pushing forward for more, accepting everything Porthos had to give.

It lasted all too briefly, Athos pulling away with a groan, his reluctance to part from Porthos clear in the way his gaze lingered for a moment on his lips.

“I have to go.”

Porthos suddenly remembered the time and ushered Athos to the door. “Can’t have you bein’ late on your first day back.” Even so, he paused for one more kiss, hard and fast, before releasing him. “Go show ’em how it’s done.”

* * * *

“Hello, stranger.”

Porthos offered Aramis a smile that was half greeting, half apology. He felt a little guilty for having neglected Aramis recently, but he _had_ been slightly preoccupied. “Sorry I ain’t been around much.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it.” Aramis grinned and threw an arm around Porthos’s shoulders, pulling him into a hug. “You’ve been busy with your man, I can’t begrudge you that.”

 _His man._ While he would never profess to having any sort of claim to Athos, the thought of them being two halves of the same whole left him feeling giddily happy. The kind of happy that, if Aramis’s expression was anything to go by, had manifested in a dopey grin.

Deflecting, Porthos nodded at the pair of wineglasses sat beside the sink. “Doesn’t look like you’ve missed me that much.”

Aramis’s smile was toothy and extremely self-satisfied. “I’ve kept myself entertained in your absence.”

“Yeah, I bet you have.” But Porthos’s despair was overlaid by affection. He might not always trust Aramis to be sensible when it came to affairs of the heart, but it was good to see him as obviously happy as Porthos himself was.

“So, he’s back at work today?” Aramis asked as he switched the kettle on.

“Yeah.” Porthos immediately began to wonder what Athos might be doing at that moment, whether he was coping, and he quickly shook his head to ward off another wave of apprehension. “I needed a distraction,” he admitted. “Thought I’d update my portfolio and albums.”

Aramis nodded like he understood. He probably did. “Want some help?”

“Please.”

Tea made, Porthos and Aramis settled at the table, Porthos’s laptop open and photographs covering every inch of available space. Porthos had absolute trust in Aramis’s taste and eye for beauty, and it wasn’t the first time he’d employed his friend’s help in putting together his photography portfolios. Aramis had proved an invaluable asset in more than one aspect of Porthos’s life, and now that the ground was firmer—both beneath his own feet and Athos’s—he thought it was about time he got serious about looking for more work. Updating his portfolio was the logical place to start.

That it also provided the distraction he was hoping for was merely an added bonus.

Years of friendship had the pair working in easy synchronicity, opinions asked for and trusted without question, and Porthos became absorbed in the task. At least, he’d _thought_ he’d been giving it his full focus, until Aramis’s voice caught his attention.

“Porthos.”

Porthos couldn’t fathom why Aramis was looking at him with such fond exasperation.

“Hmm?”

“You’ve checked your phone six times in the past ten minutes.”

“Have I?”

“Yes.”

Porthos felt a little silly. He was doing the mother hen thing again without even realising. Aramis took pity on him, smiling reassurance.

“Athos will call you if he needs you, right?”

“Yeah.” Porthos was certain he would.

“So unless you hear your phone ring, I think it’s safe to assume he’s doing okay.”

Aramis had, with his gift of insight and empathy, easily assuaged the fear that had been plaguing Porthos all day.

“You’re right.” As the weight lifted from his shoulders Porthos smiled his gratitude.

Aramis shot Porthos one of his disarming grins. “Aren’t I always?”

Porthos snorted, rolled his eyes, but didn’t disagree. He’d let Aramis have this one.

Despite Aramis’s wise counsel, however, Porthos’s heart still leapt into his throat when his phone did ring, a few hours later. He scrambled to answer, his pulse hammering.

“Hello.” Athos’s calm greeting instantly soothed Porthos’s nerves, but he took a breath to steady his voice before replying.

“Hey! How’s it going?”

“It’s going well.” Porthos could hear the smile in Athos’s voice and wondered if he’d been rumbled, or if Athos was merely happy to be talking with him. It could be either, and Porthos honestly didn’t mind which. “We’re taking a break. D’Artagnan’s gone to fetch coffee.”

“Got ’im well-trained, I see.” Porthos chuckled, feeling like an idiot now for jumping to conclusions. “Caught any bad guys yet?”

“I think Treville is easing me back in. I’ve mostly been attending briefings and catching up with reports.”

Porthos silently thanked Treville for looking out for Athos. He had only met the man once, but already had a huge amount of respect for him, trusted that he would do whatever was best for his charge.

“And you?” Athos asked then. “Are you missing me?”

“Every second.” He had meant it to be a bit of a joke but surprised himself with how much truth the words held.

Athos’s reply was just as sincere. “Me too.”

There was a moment of silence between them, one that didn’t really need to be filled, broken only by a sudden clattering noise at Athos’s end of the line.

“Ah, that’s d’Artagnan. I should go.” He sounded reluctant, but only due to the need to say goodbye. “See you later?”

“Of course!” As if Athos had needed to ask.

Porthos studiously ignored Aramis’s grin as he hung up.

* * * *

Porthos was chopping a pepper when the sound of the door opening heralded Athos’s return. He was smiling before he even turned to welcome him, grinning by the time he had taken in Athos’s surprise at finding Porthos once again at home in his kitchen.

“You ought to be careful. I could get used to this.”

“You’ve sussed my cunning plan.”

“You really don’t have to go to all this trouble for me.”

“I don’t _have_ to, no. I _want_ to.” It really was no hardship, and worth it all to see that spark alive in Athos’s eyes.

Athos clearly didn’t know how to respond so Porthos took matters into his own hands, wiping his fingers clean on a towel before drawing Athos in for a kiss. It was something he’d been waiting to do all day, a repeat of their morning exchange, and he only now realised how much he’d needed it.

If Athos’s response was any indication, he was of the same mind. He’d survived the day, another hurdle successfully overcome, and he could relax again. They could both stop worrying and look forward again, to a future that now seemed obtainable.

Their lips separated but neither of them moved, leaning against each other in a comfortable hug. Then Porthos kissed the tip of Athos’s nose and they were both smiling like idiots and it was just the release they’d needed.

“Lemme finish this and we c’n eat.” Porthos unwound himself from Athos to return to more culinary matters. “It’s Mediterranean chicken.”

“Sounds delicious.”

“You ain’t tasted it yet.”

It did, however, turn out to be perfectly edible—good even—but what Porthos most enjoyed about their meal was the evidence that Athos’s appetite had made a healthy comeback. His passable cookery skills may have only played a small part in that, but it was heartening to see nonetheless.

“So today went okay?”

“Yes. Settling back in was far easier than I was expecting.”

“Nothin’ to worry about, see?” As if Porthos hadn’t been harbouring as much anxiety as Athos. “I bet everyone was happy to see you.”

Athos wrinkled his nose. “I wouldn’t say _everyone_.”

“Rochefort?” Porthos guessed.

“If looks could kill…” But there was humour laced through the words, and Porthos was glad Athos hadn’t taken one man’s hostility to heart. “In happier news, d’Artagnan is engaged.”

“Good on ’im!” Porthos might not actually know the guy, but Athos’s affection for his young partner was contagious.

“I’ve been invited to the party. It’s Saturday evening.”

Delivered as it was, with the inflectionless tone of a newsreader announcing the headlines, it was difficult to gauge exactly how Athos felt about the prospect of attending a party, one where there would undoubtedly be alcohol present. But there was definitely some uncertainty there.

“You want to go?”

A brief pause, but his reply was certain. “Yes. Both d’Artagnan and Constance have become good friends.” What Athos didn’t need to say was that he had so few people in his life he could truly call a friend, and he felt close enough to these particular two to want to share a part of himself with them. “He did say I could bring someone along…”

Porthos was smiling before Athos even had chance to form the question. “I love a good party.”

Athos’s eyes were full of gratitude, but there was no question of Porthos being at his side, offering the support he had pledged. More than that, however, was the simple fact that he wanted to share every step, every moment, with Athos.

“How about you?” Athos asked then. “I hope you didn’t spend the day just worrying about me.”

Porthos laughed, a little self-conscious. Athos had hit the nail on the head. “Not _all_ day, no. I made a start updating my photo portfolio.”

“Oh.” Athos looked thoughtful, and then a little guilty at the abrupt realisation he had failed to enquire after Porthos’s hobby-slash-job. He made a visible effort not to beat himself up about it. “Will you show me sometime? Your photographs?” He sounded genuinely curious, and Porthos couldn’t hold a grudge.

“Yeah! Just let me finish gettin’ them organised and I’ll bring ’em round.” He could, of course, just show Athos the digital copies on his laptop, but there was something about seeing the print, being able to hold it in your hand, that he had always preferred. It made the image more real, more tangible than a picture on a screen.

“I’ll look forward to it,” Athos said with a warm smile, and his keen interest delighted Porthos. He beamed happily at Athos across the table.

“For now,” Porthos suggested, “why don’t we take dessert to the sofa?”

Athos raised an eyebrow, but he was still smiling. “Why not?”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regular readers, please note the rating change (:

They headed to d’Artagnan’s together straight after group on Saturday evening. It had been a positive meeting, with Athos talking through his first week back at work and thankfully not having to relate any close calls. He had also volunteered their plans for the rest of the night, and Aramis had asked how he felt about exposing himself to that kind of temptation, if he felt ready.

_“I believe I shall be fine,” Athos stated, and he didn’t sound at all unsure. “Besides, I’m sure I’ll be able to find a distraction if I require one.”_

The glance he had directed at Porthos, small smile quirking his lip, needed no explanation, and it hadn’t gone unnoticed by Aramis. They all knew Porthos was far more than a mere distraction, and he would be whatever Athos needed him to be.

Now, stood outside the door to d’Artagnan and Constance’s ground floor flat, listening to the sound of muffled voices and low indie music as they awaited an answer to their knock, Athos appeared no more anxious than he had been earlier.

If anything, he was suffering a little of the perfectly understandable discomfort of someone not keen on socialising. A private man willing to make an exception for those he cared about.

They shared a look, wondering if their knock had gone unheard, but just as Athos raised his hand to try again, the door swung open and they were greeted by a pair of smiling faces. D’Artagnan and Constance, Porthos assumed.

“Athos!” In a blur of auburn hair, the young woman swept Athos into a hug, one he bore with good humour. “I’m so glad you could make it, it’s great to see you!”

“And you,” Athos said, warmth in his voice, his affection clear. As soon as he was released, he was engulfed in another hug—the young man this time, clasping Athos tight.

“Thank you for coming.” He sounded pleased, and a little surprised, as if he hadn’t expected Athos to attend.

“Couldn’t miss it, could I?” If Athos was at all overwhelmed by the enthusiasm of the welcome he received, he covered it well. “I’m very happy for you both.”

It was at that moment their hosts, as one, properly registered Porthos’s presence, taking him in with open but polite curiosity. Porthos shot them his most winning smile, teamed it with a friendly, “Hi!” And then he hesitated. He and Athos hadn’t discussed how they would introduce him, what would be most suitable. He wondered if Athos would baulk at _boyfriend_ , if it would be safer to opt for the simple _friend_. He wouldn’t mind. It was the truth, after all, and nothing more needed to be said. They knew how each other felt without the need for public declarations.

Athos didn’t leave him floundering for long, leaping to his rescue with an easy smile and none of Porthos’s indecision. “Constance, d’Artagnan, this is Porthos. My partner.”

D’Artagnan’s jaw dropped comically while Constance’s smile grew wider. She beamed at Porthos, rising up onto her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

“It’s lovely to meet you,” she said warmly.

“An’ you,” Porthos agreed. He could already see Constance becoming a firm friend. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you!” And without even turning around, she added, “D’Artagnan, stop gawping.”

D’Artagnan cringed, suitably chastened. Constance clearly had a formidable side that only endeared her even more to Porthos, and he fought to hide a smile at the flush darkening her fiancé’s cheeks in the face of her scolding.

“Uh, sorry,” the young man stuttered, gaze flicking between Athos and Porthos, and Porthos wondered if he should be offended by his reaction. “I just…it’s a bit of a surprise.”

“That I am gay, or that I am not the hopeless recluse you believed me to be?” The fond amusement in Athos’s voice put Porthos at ease.

“Erm…both?” He finally gathered his wits and, with a lopsided grin that was half apology, half happiness, hugged Athos once more before extending a hand to Porthos.

Constance ushered them all inside where maybe two-dozen people were already celebrating. “The food’s not quite ready yet,” she informed them, “but Fleur is in charge of drinks in the kitchen.” She pointed them in the right direction before heading off to mediate a debate over the music.

They located Fleur, performing her role as bartender with gusto.

“What’ll it be?” she asked, gesturing at the kitchen counter-cum-makeshift bar. “We have red, white, Stella, Fosters, cider, or there are some ales left. You can take your pick from those.”

Porthos felt Athos tense beside him, but when he spoke his voice was remarkably steady.

“Have you any soft drinks?”

Fleur blinked, nonplussed, but her surprise only lasted a moment. She probably assumed Athos was the designated driver. “Yes, there’s orange juice, lemonade, or, uhm…water?”

“Orange juice will be fine, thank you?”

“And?” Fleur prompted, looking at Porthos now.

“Lemonade for me, please.”

Their drinks in hand, they went to rejoin the others.

“You needn’t abstain on my behalf,” Athos said as they followed the sound of laughter. “Have a drink if you want one.”

“Nah.” Porthos shook his head decisively, his choice made. What kind of support would that be showing, drinking in front of Athos? Besides, there were other important factors to take into consideration. “If I do that, I won’t be able to kiss you. An’ I know which I’d rather do.”

That prompted one of those small, crooked smiles. “Me too,” Athos agreed softly just as d’Artagnan spotted them and waved them over.

Porthos could see in his eyes that Athos truly meant it.

As word got around that Porthos was Athos’s other half he found himself suddenly extremely popular. The people who had known Athos for years, worked with him on an almost daily basis, wanted to know how Porthos had managed to crack that seemingly impenetrable façade. What quickly became clear was how well liked and respected Athos was, despite that cold, aloof exterior, and everybody was keen to get to know him better. His colleagues clearly held him in high regard, with the one notable exception Porthos knew about happily absent. Perhaps Rochefort’s invitation had gotten lost in the post.

While he tried not to watch Athos like a hawk, Porthos nonetheless remained instinctively aware of him, seeking regular reassurance he was coping. He had seen no reason to worry, and allowed himself to relax, even agreeing to participate in an impromptu arm-wrestling match.

It was a short while later, as he looked up to share his victory, that he realised Athos had disappeared.

Telling himself there was absolutely no reason to panic, Porthos watched for his return. In all likelihood he had gone to the bathroom, or to get another glass of orange juice, something as innocuous as that.

He lasted another five minutes before caving.

There were a limited number of places within the flat he could feasibly have gone, and after checking the kitchen and bathroom and sticking his head around the bedroom door, Porthos had to conclude Athos was no longer there. He was just pulling out his phone when he remembered the backdoor.

It opened from the kitchen onto a tiny square of patio, and that’s where he found Athos. Leaning against the wall of the house, smoking a cigarette.

“There you are.” Porthos hoped he’d shed his initial alarm, that he didn’t sound _too_ relieved to have found Athos in one piece. “You okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” He offered a smile that almost put Porthos at ease. Almost. “I just needed some air.”

Porthos shot a pointed look at the cigarette, the curl of smoke currently polluting that air.

“And a cigarette,” Athos conceded. “Mostly the cigarette.”

“You need to leave, just say, yeah?”

“I will,” Athos assured him. “But I am fine.” Porthos must have looked a little sceptical for he added, “Honestly.” His smile this time was more convincing as he took a final drag and stubbed out the cigarette. “Did you win?”

It was a few seconds before Porthos realised he was referring to the arm wrestling. “Of course!” Pretending to be affronted that Athos even need ask.

“Never doubted you for a moment.”

It was difficult to ascertain just how _fine_ Athos really was, but Porthos guessed he hadn’t been fully prepared for how hard it would be to find himself surrounded by alcohol. By _temptation_. What was obvious was that he could now do with that distraction.

And Porthos was more than happy to oblige.

Moving in front of Athos, he slid one hand down his arm to tangle their fingers together, slipping the other around the back of his head to hold him in place as he leaned in for a kiss.

Athos made a soft, muffled sound of surprise, but moments later Porthos felt the tension ebbing from his body as he responded, lips parting and free hand hooking around Porthos’s hip, holding him close.

The kiss was unhurried, long and languid, both of them enjoying the simple pleasure of the contact, the connection. When they parted it was only for the lack of air, their breath mingling in the scant inch separating them.

“What was that for?” Athos’s question was a breathless whisper.

Porthos shrugged, stroked his thumb along Athos’s jaw. “Wanted to.”

“I must taste horrible.”

“Yeah,” Porthos confirmed. “But I don’t care.” And to prove it, he leaned back in, found Athos’s lips once more. Somehow, the bitter tang of the smoke lingering on Athos’s tongue only added to the experience, Porthos delving deeper to find Athos’s true flavour beneath.

A polite cough had them both jumping like schoolboys caught behind the bike shed. Constance was stood in the doorway, trying—and failing—to suppress a smile.

“Just wanted to let you boys know the food is ready, if you’re hungry.”

Porthos grinned, unruffled and unapologetic. “Starvin’!”

Endearingly embarrassed, a faint blush colouring his cheeks, Athos managed a sheepish smile. “Thank you. We’ll be there in just a minute.”

“Take as long as you like,” Constance told them, somehow resisting a lewd wink. “But be warned, d’Artagnan may have eaten everything by the time you get there.”

“Duly noted.”

Constance did smile then, conspiratorial, as she went back inside, pulling the door together behind her to allow them their privacy a little longer. Porthos chuckled, playfully bumping Athos’s nose with his own.

“Don’t think she was expecting to find us out here snoggin’ like a couple of teenagers.”

A hint of that blush still lingered, but Athos was otherwise unfazed by their unintentional public display of affection. “She didn’t seem to mind.” He nuzzled into Porthos, lips grazing along the line of his jaw, tongue darting out to lick at the shell of his ear. Porthos shivered, a thrill of pleasure running along his spine, every nerve in his body sparking. “She is right, though. About d’Artagnan.”

“Then we’d better get back in there!” But despite his urgency, Porthos wasn’t quite ready to let Athos go. Athos, it seemed, felt the same, neither of them moving an inch from their embrace. It was Athos who eventually settled on a solution, keeping firm hold of Porthos’s hand as he led them back indoors.

* * * *

“I think you made a good impression.” Athos was perched on the edge of the bed, pulling off his socks. They’d stayed a few more hours, leaving when the party started to wind down. “D’Artagnan seems to like you.”

Porthos had liked d’Artagnan too, after that brief initial friction. He began unbuttoning his shirt as he replied. “He seems like a good kid.”

“He is. A little hot-headed at times, perhaps, but his heart’s in the right place.”

“And he’s got you to mentor ’im and Constance to keep him in line. I think he’ll do just fine.”

Athos grimaced. “I’m not sure I make the best role model.”

Porthos aimed a frown at him. Athos’s self-doubt was understandable, but Porthos was determined to help him see past his imperfections to the honourable, worthy man he knew lay beyond, however long it may take. “You’re the only one who thinks that. You should have more faith in yourself.”

Porthos didn’t, of course, expect immediate and wholehearted agreement, but Athos’s small nod of acknowledgement was more than he could have hoped for in the recent past.

Satisfied Athos was at least taking his words on board, Porthos returned to his buttons. Freeing the last couple, he shrugged off the shirt and tossed it onto a chair, wondering where he’d left the t-shirt he usually slept in.

His search was interrupted by a soft sound from the bed. A choked off groan.

Athos was watching him, eyes dark and unblinking. His tongue peeked out, quickly wet his lips and disappeared again. When his gaze finally, lazily, made its way to Porthos’s face, Porthos was stunned by the undisguised lust burning there, focused solely on him.

A fist clenched and unclenched, the only indication of Athos’s internal debate, but whatever decision he was warring with was quickly settled. A split second later he was right there, in front of Porthos.

His kiss was hard, bruising, striking with whirlwind force that left Porthos breathless. He had just barely recovered enough to respond when hands ran up and over his shoulders, leaving a blazing hot trail in their wake, fingers splaying, palms pressing against bare skin, exploring, mapping the planes of his chest, thumbs catching his nipples and pausing there a moment to tease.

Porthos gasped, a brief respite as Athos broke the kiss, but whatever question had begun forming on his tongue was swiftly dashed away by the look in Athos’s eyes.

 _Want_.

Then Athos ducked his head, lips finding Porthos’s throat, teeth grazing, mouth following the path forged by his questing hands, tongue taking over from a thumb and laving over the peaked bud of a nipple.

Dazed, Porthos let himself be swept along by this sudden, surprising force of nature, hands seeking purchase, finding Athos’s hair and fisting gently. It only encouraged him further, his downward journey continuing, fingers playing over the bumps of ribs, tongue and warm breath tickling the muscles of Porthos’s stomach, making them twitch, dipping briefly into his belly button.

He only stopped when he reached the barrier of a waistband. Hands clutching Porthos’s hips, Athos pressed his forehead to his belly, breathing hard, mouth only inches from the telltale bulge in Porthos’s jeans.

Porthos gave the hair in his hand a tug, urging Athos to look up at him. Slowly, he complied, fixing Porthos with a gaze that had blown far past desire to something more. Something almost desperate.

 _Need_.

“What if…” Athos paused, cleared his throat, tried again. “What if I were to keep a tally? You could owe me.”

Porthos tried to process that, work out what exactly he was proposing. His brain was sluggish, mind frazzled by the attention—the _worship_ —Athos had just been bestowing upon him, but he finally caught up. And it wasn’t entirely fair, Athos asking that when he was on his knees, thumbs stroking heated skin, so _close_.

Porthos closed his eyes, a brief moment of calm in which to consider his response. He remembered only too vividly the last time they had been in such an intimate position, the result of that aborted attempt, and didn’t want to risk a repeat. But maybe Athos had hit upon a solution.

“Yeah. Okay.” The words came before he’d even made the conscious decision to agree. It was obvious Athos wanted it just as badly as he did himself. They could make it work; they _would_ make it work. “I _will_ pay you back.”

It was all Athos needed to hear. He was already unbuckling Porthos’s belt, unfastening his fly and shoving both jeans and boxers down, out of the way. With some relief, Porthos’s cock sprang free, almost fully hard, straining toward Athos. Athos licked his lips again, flicked his gaze back up to Porthos’s face, the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“With interest, of course.”

Porthos’s splutter of indignation morphed into a groan of pleasure as Athos swallowed him down.

It took every ounce of self-control he could muster not to thrust into that welcoming warmth, and when Athos pulled back to swirl his tongue around the head, his knees almost buckled. A hand found his balls, rolling them and tugging as his tongue continued to taste, and Porthos shuddered, groaned long and low.

Athos sank back down, agonisingly slowly, taking Porthos as deep as he was able before sliding up again, tongue pressed flat to the underside of Porthos’s cock, then pausing to suckle. Porthos’s hips jerked forward—he couldn’t help it—but Athos moved with him, encouraging, jaw going slack and fingers pressing into the crease between his leg and arse, urging him not to stop.

Carefully, Porthos rocked forward, thrusting slow and gentle, until Athos coaxed him just a little deeper, a little faster. He looked down, a part of his mind still concerned for Athos’s comfort, and the sight that greeted him almost had him coming there and then.

Athos’s eyes were closed as if he were savouring the taste, the _moment_ , his lips stretched around Porthos, eagerly accepting everything Porthos gave.

The sound that Porthos made then was more of a growl than a groan. Athos opened his eyes at the noise, looking extremely pleased at the state to which he had reduced Porthos; completely wrecked and at his mercy. Porthos didn’t care, was too enthralled, too lost to everything but the feel of Athos’s mouth, the touch of his hands.

Athos stilled him with a squeeze to the thigh, wrapped a hand around the base of his cock, retaking control. He began to move hand and mouth in tandem, his tongue masterfully finding all the right places, fingers clenching with just the right amount of maddening pressure. Porthos felt his balls tighten, knew he was teetering on the edge, that he couldn’t hold on much longer.

“Athos…” It was little more than a broken whisper. “ _Ath_ —”

Desperately, he tugged at the hair beneath his hand, a warning, but Athos only hummed acknowledgement, didn’t relent. Instead, he pressed a finger up behind Porthos’s balls, and that was enough. Porthos came, pulsing helplessly, ecstatically, into Athos’s willing mouth, hands fisting reflexively, lungs gasping for air. Athos swallowed around him, releasing him only when every last drop had been drained.

Athos somehow managed to manoeuvre Porthos to the bed before his legs gave out, falling with him when Porthos didn’t let go. Still a little uncoordinated, it took Porthos two tries to find his lips, but when he did their kiss was slow and sweet.

“Mmm…” Porthos mumbled happily, barely pulling away to speak. “That was…” He trailed off, at a loss for the most suitable word.

“Good?” Athos supplied, and Porthos laughed, a deep, rumbling belly laugh that shook the whole bed, because _good_ barely even scratched the surface.

Athos extricated himself and climbed off of the bed, but only so he could pull the jeans free from where they had tangled around Porthos’s ankles and toss them aside. Then he prodded at Porthos until he got him under the covers, deftly avoiding Porthos’s attempts to get a hold of him, ignoring his best pout with a roll of his eyes.

Athos moved away, and Porthos began to grumble in unhappy protest until he realised it was just so he could remove his own clothing. A little shy but otherwise unconcerned by his audience of one, Athos stripped naked and, to Porthos’s surprise, slid straight into the bed, forgoing his own nightwear.

They hadn’t done that before, sleep together with no clothing between them but Athos didn’t hesitate to snuggle up beside Porthos, skin against bare skin.

Porthos reached out to switch off the lamp, then tucked his arm around Athos, fingers tracing random patterns across the warm skin of his back. He felt sated, happy, and incredibly blessed. He’d have loved to be able to reciprocate, but it didn’t worry him now that he couldn’t, right away. His chance would come.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” Athos confessed, voice soft in the dark.

“An’ I can’t wait to repay you.”

Athos went still then, and Porthos could almost hear the self-recriminating thoughts beginning to resurface. In an effort to deflect the apology he knew was coming, he hugged Athos tighter. “Don’t worry. It’ll happen.”

It took a few seconds, but he felt Athos relax, accepting Porthos’s assertion. Turning his head a little, Athos pressed a kiss to Porthos’s shoulder.

“Thank you.”

“Shouldn’t I be thanking _you_?”

A soft laugh ghosted over his shoulder, all evidence of tension gone.

“You’re very welcome.”


	13. Chapter 13

It was a rainy Thursday evening almost two weeks later that Porthos brought his photographs for Athos to see. The reorganisation had taken longer than he’d expected, but Aramis insisted that was a good thing. He had so much he was proud of it was an almost impossible task to pick the best of the bunch.

He was pleased with the results, and felt a swell of pride at the anticipation in Athos’s eyes when he realised what was piled on his coffee table. Porthos urged him to take a seat on the sofa, eager to share this part of himself.

“We’ll skip the catalogue stuff,” he decided. “It’s bland and impersonal.” It earned him a bit of cash, but the images were by necessity rather boring. That’s not to sat he didn’t give it one hundred per cent, but he wanted Athos to see the photographs he was most proud of.

The first binder he flipped open contained the landscapes. That was a bit of a misnomer really, for most of the shots would more correctly be labelled cityscapes; locations, architecture, and examples of everyday life that had caught his eye for one reason or another. Neither did they focus on the pristine. He liked to capture the true feel of a place, warts and all.

Porthos watched Athos as he slowly turned the pages, taking time to study each image. He felt nervous, like a schoolboy awaiting a teacher’s approval, even more so than when he showed his work to a potential client.

Eventually, Athos looked up, having reached the final page. “These are incredible.”

“Yeah?” There was a part of Porthos that suspected Athos was merely humouring him, but he saw the look of sincere wonder in Athos’s eyes and shoved his doubts aside.

“Yes.” Athos nodded to emphasise his point. “I love how you capture life as it truly is, and find beauty in things other people would be quick to dismiss, or even fail to notice. You have an amazing eye.”

Struck speechless at the praise, Porthos could do nothing but grin happily for a moment, impressed that Athos had picked up on his intentions purely from a flick through the shots, and pleased he’d pulled it off so successfully. It wasn’t often he found himself overcome by shy modesty, but Athos’s words meant a lot.

“Thank you.” It came out as a whisper and brought a smile to Athos’s lips.

“May I see more?”

“Yeah, of course.” Porthos switched the folder on Athos’s lap for the next on the pile. “These are the weddings and functions and stuff. Don’t hold me accountable for some of the terrible taste in here.”

It didn’t take Athos long to realise what he meant, and they chuckled together at some of the outfits on show. Porthos could only work with what he had on these occasions, but he always did the best he could to give the people involved perfect mementos of their day. Thankfully, they had always been impressed and most had agreed to let him add a few shots to his personal portfolio.

Turning another page, Athos paused at a shot of two men, dressed to the nines and gazing adoringly at each other as if the camera wasn’t even there.

“That’s the first properly legal gay wedding I did,” Porthos said. “It was brilliant. They really knew how to throw a decent party!” They’d treated Porthos almost as a guest rather than just the photographer, and it had been an honour to be a part of their day.

Athos lingered for a moment, then flipped the page. His silence began to worry Porthos, and he wondered if it had been a mistake to put so many happy, smiling faces on display. But when Athos looked up from the final photo he had that little smile at the corner of his mouth.

“They all look so natural.”

“I try not to make them too formal,” Porthos explained. He’d found the more candid shots were always the best, and it seemed Athos agreed. “No one wants to remember their big day with a photo of them looking like they’ve got a stick up their arse.”

“True,” Athos agreed. “And you’ve done so beautifully. You can see the genuine happiness in every one.”

Porthos grinned, a little overwhelmed. “I’ve got a meeting tomorrow afternoon with a couple for another potential wedding gig.”

“They’d be fools to go with anyone else.”

Porthos held up crossed fingers. “Hopefully, they’ll agree.”

“If they don’t, I’ll arrest them for their criminal lack of sense.”

The deadpan statement had Porthos laughing, and he hooked an arm around Athos’s shoulders and pulled him in for a kiss. Because he was happy, because he could.

When Porthos released him, Athos’s curiosity returned. “What’s in the final album?” he asked, eyes on the one remaining binder.

“This one,” Porthos said, picking it up and presenting it to Athos with a flourish, “contains all my personal stuff.”

It was the one he didn’t take to interviews, yet the one he liked the most. He felt the smile growing on his face as Athos opened to the first page, revealing faces Porthos knew so well. He gave Athos a running commentary as he flipped through, Athos attentive to the insight into Porthos’s life.

There was one face, however, that needed no introduction. Athos huffed a small laugh. “Aramis certainly is photogenic, isn’t he?”

“I’d tell ’im you said that, but his ego’s inflated enough already.”

Athos turned another page to a set of photos taken a couple of years ago. “That’s Flea.” Porthos pointed at the young woman with messy blonde hair grinning cheekily at the camera. “We grew up together, on our way through the system. Looked out f’r each other, you know? She’s like my sister.”

“I get the impression she’s a bit of a free spirit.”

Porthos laughed. “Yeah, she is that. We got into all kinds of trouble together.”

“I can imagine.” Athos was smiling at the thought.

“She’s off travelling at the moment, but I’ll make sure you meet her as soon as she’s back.”

“I look forward to it.”

Athos lapsed back into silence then, his gaze on the photos but his thoughts elsewhere. He rose suddenly, handing the album back to Porthos.

“I’ll just be a moment.” And with that, Athos left the room.

He wasn’t gone long, returning before Porthos had the chance to grow anxious at his disappearance. He had something in his hand—a photograph, Porthos realised—and he held it out to Porthos as he settled back down beside him.

“That’s Thomas.”

Porthos would have known that without Athos telling him. The similarities between the two men in the photo clearly identified them as brothers, close enough in age that they could almost be mistaken for twins were it not for the younger brother’s denim-blue eyes. But what struck Porthos the most was the carefree smile on Athos’s face, the unbridled happiness shining in his eyes despite it appearing as if Thomas had goaded him into posing for the photo, holding him in place with an arm slung around his neck.

“We were at a cousin’s wedding.” Which explained their formal attire. “Thomas insisted we have a photo taken while we both still looked vaguely presentable.”

“He looks like a good guy,” Porthos decided, liking the mischievous glint in Thomas’s eye.

“He was.”

“You were close.” It was an observation rather than a question.

“We were.” Athos took a breath, fortifying himself against the weight of memory. “He was the first person I came out to. I knew our parents wouldn’t be thrilled about having a gay son, and I didn’t really give a damn what they thought. But Thomas…I didn't want to lose his friendship. As it turned out, I needn’t have worried. He made a quip about not having to worry about the competition and dragged me out to a club to celebrate.”

Porthos could easily imagine exactly what Athos had thought of that plan and couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ll bet you enjoyed that!”

“I hated it,” Athos confirmed, “but Thomas had a great time and I was too relieved to deny him his fun.”

Athos’s next breath was a little shaky and Porthos hadn’t intended his show and tell to end on quite so sombre a note. He leaned forward to prop the photo up against his own stack of binders on the table, then sat back again, raising his arm in invitation. Athos leaned into him without hesitation, and they settled into a loose, comfortable embrace.

His voice low, Porthos spoke into the quiet that blanketed them, filling it with memories that never failed to bring a smile to his face. “This one time, Flea decided she wanted to see a film, but we didn’t have any money for the cinema tickets. They caught us tryin’ to sneak in, but Flea put on such an Oscar-worthy performance that the manager let us go in and watch it anyway.”

Athos laughed softly, the sound a hum against Porthos’s side.

“I suppose I shouldn’t tell you about some of the slightly less than legal things we got up to.”

“Don’t worry, we’ve plenty of crimes to keep us busy as it is. Your past misdemeanours will remain between us. Besides,” he added, and Porthos could hear the smile in his voice, “Thomas and I were hardly angels ourselves.”

Silence fell once more, but it was lighter now, buoyed by a happier kind of nostalgia. Something Athos was finally allowing himself to experience again without becoming engulfed by the oppressive guilt triggered by the memory of his brother. He was gradually releasing himself from his self-imposed shackles, shedding the burden of blame that had until now been lodged firmly on his shoulders.

Porthos shifted a little to fish his phone out of his pocket. Athos didn’t stir, at first, until Porthos activated the camera and held the phone out at arm’s length in front of them, at which point he turned his face into Porthos’s shoulder with a groan.

“What are you doing?”

“Need a photo of _you_ now, don’t I?”

“You see me every day.” Athos’s protest was somewhat muffled by Porthos’s t-shirt. “You’re not going to forget what I look like.”

“It’s for the album.” Porthos remained confident in his reasoning. “Ain’t complete without you.”

Athos looked up then, eyes bright with emotion he was unable to articulate. Porthos understood, could read how tentative optimism had finally been persuaded into something more certain. Porthos smiled, a confirmation that Athos was indeed now an integral part of his life, then gave him a nudge, urging him to face the camera.

Athos rolled his eyes, but turned, and even managed not to scowl as Porthos got them both into frame and snapped a photo.

“See, that weren’t so bad.”

Athos just grunted, but Porthos knew he wasn’t really pissed. He continued to fiddle with his phone, opening the settings. 

“What are you doing now?”

“Making it my lock screen.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

Porthos was unrepentant. “Yep!”

* * * *

As he slowly rose from the deaths of sleep, Porthos decided that a kiss from Athos was the very best wake up call he’d ever received.

“Wha’ time’s it?” he asked as he blinked blearily at Athos, already mostly dressed, hair still damp from the shower.

“Almost time for me to leave. I didn’t want you to sleep through your meeting.”

“Plenty of time yet.” He did, however, have to return to the flat to find something smart to wear. Plus breakfast, of course. So, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, stretching and tugging Athos back to him.

“I really do have to go,” Athos insisted, and there was both laughter and regret in his voice as he reluctantly dragged his gaze back up from Porthos’s bare chest. But he did lean back in for another quick kiss before pulling away to fetch a pair of socks. “Good luck for today,” he said as he sat on the edge of the bed to pull on the socks. “Although I’m sure you won’t need it. But let me know how it goes, won’t you.”

“Of course.” Porthos waylaid Athos once more as he stood and made for the door, unable to resist one last kiss, gratitude and farewell combined.

* * * *

Binder clutched under his arm, Porthos forced the butterflies in his stomach to stop fluttering as he found the right address. He’d done this enough times that he knew his confidence would disguise his nerves, but he could never quite eradicate them altogether. Aramis said it was because he cared about what he did, wanted to make a good impression and convey his passion.

Porthos thought he was probably right. As usual.

Just as he was about to ring the doorbell, his phone started to ring. The number displayed on the screen was one neither he nor his phone recognised so he let it ring out and switched the phone to silent. He didn’t want to be late because of some you’ve-had-an-accident crap, and if it was another potential client they’d hopefully leave a message.

He’d forgotten about the mysterious call entirely after almost an hour spent chatting with the soon-to-be-weds. Thankfully, they’d hit it off straight away, and Porthos felt certain he’d won them over. They had promised to let him know their decision by the end of the weekend.

He was in the middle of typing a text message to Athos when his phone buzzed again, the same number from earlier appearing on screen. Curious now, he hit Accept and answered the call.

“Is that Porthos?”

“Yeah...” The voice was familiar, and Porthos placed it a second before the man identified himself.

“This is John Treville.”

Porthos went numb, his stomach lurching as his fingers tightened their hold on the phone. There was very little chance that Athos’s boss was phoning him for a casual chat.

“What’s happened?” His voice sounded raw, distant, even to his own ears.

“It’s Athos.” A thousand possible scenarios flashed through Porthos’s mind, each worse than the previous. He pushed them all back, forced himself to focus on Treville’s voice. “There’s been an incident, he was injured. I thought I should—”

“Where?” Porthos interrupted, hoarse. He knew he was being rude, but the air had frozen in his lungs and there were cold fingers clutching his heart. Thankfully, Treville seemed to understand, had probably had to deal with this kind of thing more times than he’d care to remember.

“He’s been taken to St. Thomas’s.”

Ignoring etiquette, Porthos hung up on Treville, and almost threw himself onto his bike. He forced himself to take a second to remember how to breathe, then yanked his helmet on and opened the throttle, the roar of the engine not quite drowning out his fear.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a brief instance of homophobic and racist language.

Porthos wound his way through the hospital corridors in a daze, having to turn back on himself once when he took a wrong turn, his hand shaking as he jabbed the lift call button. By the time he reached the intensive care ward he’d been directed to he was both desperate to see Athos and dreading the state he’d find him in.

His gruff query came out sounding more like a demand, startling the poor nurse manning the desk. After forcing himself to take a breath he tried again, but when the young man hesitated and began to ask if he was a relative, Porthos felt his tenuous grip on calm slipping.

Thankfully, Treville chose that moment to appear at his elbow and okay his entry, much to the relief of both Porthos and the nurse. A hand on his shoulder, Treville steered Porthos to a side room, the firm touch a comfort to Porthos’s whirling mind.

There were two beds in the room, but only one was occupied. D’Artagnan rose from a chair beside that bed when Porthos entered, muttering a greeting that Porthos barely heard, his focus fixed solely upon the figure lying so still beneath the thin sheet.

The bruising that mottled Athos’s face stood out in stark relief against his otherwise pale skin, his hair darkened and matted in places by what was obviously blood. Wires and tubes snaked their way beneath the sheet that no doubt concealed more damage, and Porthos couldn’t seem to fill his lungs, the sight a vice around his chest.

Gently, he took Athos’s hand, picking it up from where it lay on the bed and grasping it between his own. It wasn’t cold and clammy as he had feared, but warm and dry.

“What happened?”

Porthos addressed the question to Treville although his eyes never left Athos, unable to look away from the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“He was following up a lead, checking an address we believe to be linked to a case.” Ever careful, Treville didn’t reveal too many details, although it was no secret that he’d been gradually allowing Athos to emerge from behind his desk. “We had no idea it would turn out to be a major location used by our suspects and Athos was going to be walking slap bang into the middle of a pit of vipers.”

Porthos frowned, trying to understand. “You sent him in there alone?”

“Of course not.”

D’Artagnan gave a contemptuous snort. “Might as well have done, all the use that wanker was.”

“D’Artagnan!” While the reprimand lacked any real censure, there was a warning in Treville’s tone that d’Artagnan ignored, the anger stoking a fire behind his eyes.

“Where the hell was Rochefort when Athos was being beaten half to death?”

That was a name Porthos had heard several times now, and never in a positive light. He was about to ask d’Artagnan to elaborate when the door clicked open and a thin-faced blond man entered. Judging by the murderous expression on d’Artagnan’s face, Porthos felt it was safe to assume this was the man himself.

Speak of the devil and all that.

Blatantly ignoring d’Artagnan, Rochefort strode in, his face a picture of insincere concern.

“How is he doing?” It was likely impossible to sound any less bothered about Athos’s wellbeing.

It was Treville who responded. “The doctors are still worried about the head injury, but now he’s out of surgery they’re saying he’s stable. If he wakes up in the next twenty-four hours, they think he’ll be on track for a full recovery.”

“No thanks to you,” d’Artagnan muttered acidly, glaring daggers at the sergeant.

Rochefort affected an air of scandalised innocence at the implication. “It’s not my fault he chose to ignore my advice to wait for backup and wade on in there.”

“You still should have been with him.” D’Artagnan wasn’t going to let the matter drop. “We’re supposed to have each other’s backs.”

“I couldn’t stop him barging off by himself. The man’s a liability.” It seemed Rochefort was getting stuck in to a favourite topic. “He’s clearly a danger to himself, and the rest of us. It’s a wonder I’m not laid up in a hospital bed myself after that disaster.”

“Yeah.” D’Artagnan’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Strange that.”

The conversation washed over Porthos, the words sinking in slowly as his attention was still focused predominantly on Athos. It took a few minutes, therefore, before something Treville had said truly registered.

“What d’you mean, _if_ he wakes up?”

The worry in Treville’s eyes wasn’t comforting. “He took a pretty vicious blow to the head so they’ve given him a scan to check for swelling or bleeds, but they can’t fully assess him until he wakes up. Obviously, the sooner that is, the better.”

Treville went on, and Porthos heard him mention broken ribs and internal bleeding, but it all just added to the pervading horror churning in his gut. It all felt vaguely surreal, as if he might be dreaming, but the smell of antiseptic, the beeping of the machines, and the feel of Athos’s still hand were all too real.

He caught movement in the corner of his eye, glanced up to see Rochefort stood at his elbow, crowding far too close. The man’s cold gaze swept over him, assessing, finally settling on the hand clasped around Athos’s. The sight brought an ugly smirk to his lips.

“You know, I always had him pegged for a queer.” Rochefort’s voice was low, for Porthos’s ears only, dripping with venom and undisguised distaste. “But I’d never have thought he’d go for one of you lot.”

In a heartbeat, Porthos had slammed Rochefort up against the wall, pinning him in place with an arm to his throat. The fear that flickered across his face would have been a pleasure to watch had Porthos not already been consumed by rage and worry.

Rochefort could say whatever the hell he liked about Porthos, but to speak so disgustingly about Athos when he was unconscious in a hospital bed was something Porthos just couldn’t let go.

“If I find out you had anything to do with this…” Porthos’s growl held every ounce of loathing he felt for this man he had only just met.

“I have no idea what you’re implying, but if that’s a threat you’ll regret it.” Rochefort huffed with indignant fury, scrabbling to recover from his initial fright. “In fact, I could arrest you right now for assaulting a police officer.”

“You will do no such thing.” Treville appeared at Porthos’s side, placing that calming hand back on his shoulder, aiming a no-nonsense glare at Rochefort in an attempt to diffuse the situation. “Let him go, Porthos.”

“He’s not worth it,” d’Artagnan added, and it was nice to know they were on his side, that they wanted to stop him doing something he would later regret even though he got the feeling they would rather enjoy watching him break Rochefort’s nose.

“Porth’s.”

They all froze for a beat, then every head snapped to the bed. Athos was peering at them through the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut, tongue vainly attempting to moisten his dry lips. Speaking again clearly beyond his reach for the moment, he instead lifted his hand from the bed, reaching out to Porthos.

Anger forgotten, Porthos gave Rochefort one final shove, heard the satisfying _thunk_ as his head hit the wall, and then he was back at Athos’s side. Clasping his hand once again, Porthos vaguely registered the shuffling as Treville and d’Artagnan hauled Rochefort from the room, but paid them no heed. Someone more important held his full attention now.

“God, Athos, I was so scared.”

Athos’s good eye focused on him, and perhaps he could see just how deep that fear had run. Porthos still felt it as a tight knot in his stomach, so there was a strong chance it was also written all over his face.

A frown drew Athos’s brows together and he licked his lips again. “I’m sorry.” His voice was weak, a slight lisp on the _S_.

“Don’t you dare apologise.” Porthos gave his hand a squeeze to emphasise his words. “This wasn’t your fault.”

Rochefort would argue otherwise, of course, but even after such a short acquaintance, Porthos was disinclined to trust anything that came out of his mouth. Athos might have taken that kind of stupid risk once, but not now.

“Do you remember what happened?” Having Athos’s side of the story might be the only way to disprove Rochefort’s take on events, and that would be better than letting the weasel get away with his fabrications.

After a moment of silence, however, Athos gave a slow shake of his head, mouth drawing down in frustration as he realised he had no recollection of how he came to be in hospital. Before it had chance to grow into distress, Porthos soothed it away, gently brushing tangled strands of hair from Athos’s forehead.

“Don’t worry about that now. All you need to think about is gettin’ better, yeah?”

He waited for Athos’s nod, then bent to press a kiss to his temple, mindful of his injuries. Athos tilted his chin, angling for a proper kiss, and Porthos obliged, meeting Athos’s lips and feeling lighter than he had since Treville’s call. When he pulled back, he noticed the little half-smile in the corner of Athos’s mouth. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and more reassuring than any number of medical tests or scans.

The door opened again and Porthos recognised the nurse he’d startled earlier accompanied by a medic he assumed from the stethoscope hanging around her neck must be Athos’s doctor or surgeon.

“I hear you’re back with us, Mr. la Fère,” she said brightly, keen gaze already assessing her patient. “Let’s see how you’re doing, shall we?”

She acknowledged Porthos with a friendly nod as she reached for Athos’s chart. Porthos reluctantly released Athos’s hand and stepped out of the way to give them space to do their job and hopefully ensure Athos was on the mend.

But he didn’t go far.

**Author's Note:**

> The title (and inspiration) is taken from David Bowie's 'Absolute Beginners'.


End file.
